


Something Of Your Own

by jscribbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 90's and 2000's music references, Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Castiel, Blowjobs, Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Concerts, Dancer!Castiel, Depictions of grief, Depression, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Music Festival, Sexy Dancing, Struggles with Sexuality, a funeral, adopted!Cas, castiel is an awkward turtle but a cute turtle, characters come out later in life, cute dates, dean acts like a dickhead sometimes because thats canon, dean runs family business, hannah/sam winchester - Freeform, lots of canon references and parallels, lovin tender facefucking, mentioned neglectful parent, music store owner!Dean, naomi is a manipulative friend, orphan!cas, profoundly bonded, secondary character death, sick parent, uriel is the best character ever and i will defend him with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 91,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles
Summary: Anxious and sheltered thirty-four year old Castiel Grace is convinced he's going to be weird and alone forever. But that all changes when he meets a hot green-eyed charmer at a bar and brings him home.What he thinks is a one night stand quickly turns into one of the most profound relationships he's had in his life. Without meaning to, Dean teaches him that anyone can hurt, even when they're smiling, and that loneliness isn't exclusive to those who are alone.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 453
Kudos: 479
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection, The Fatback Multiverse Collection





	1. Let's Get Physical

**Author's Note:**

> I...wrote a modern AU? I know, what world is this? 
> 
> Thanks so much to my most amazing betas who've helped at various stages and chapters: [malmuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmuses), [sobsicles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles), [vicktick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicktick), [lawful_feral_merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawful_feral_merit) and [kradarua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua). Y'all have saved these poor readers from my commas and em-dashes. Doin' Chuck's work, y'know?
> 
> This fic will be posting a chapter once a week around Tuesday/Wednesday until completion. I don't abandon WIPs, so rest assured, this puppy is as good as done. Buckle in! I have feels and music.
> 
> Music is an important theme in this fic, so please click into the links below and enjoy the main soundtrack for this chapter. Tap your toes and shake your buns to these tunes: [Physical - Dua Lipa](https://youtu.be/ZUau1RT8qbc)  
> , and [#1 Crush - Garbage](https://youtu.be/2EdBtvI7e9o)
> 
> Enjoy!

For some, the upsides of working from home far outweighed the downsides. Sitting in front of three screens all day—two with relevant programs open and the third playing The Wire unendingly—was likely appealing to most folk. Understandably, most people would’ve loved to bask in every opportunity to sit in their pyjamas all day, walk the dog in between conference calls (or during them), and eat as many lunches as they wanted since the fridge was a mere thirty second commute. Most importantly, there were no coworkers to judge them for eating at their desks. 

After eleven years of working from home, Castiel, for the most part, still loved all of those things. The only time he saw coworkers was on Skype in the mornings, when he could wear a white button-up and blue tie up top and plaid navy pyjamas on the bottom. He didn’t count his Jack Russell Terrier—named, classically, ‘Jack’—as a coworker, though he was sure that if the mutt could speak, he’d certainly judge him for eating as many lunches as he did. If the dog had the ability to eat PB&J sandwiches at will, he most certainly would have, too—at least, that’s how Castiel rationalized it. 

His coworkers were nice enough and rarely bothered him save for their morning meetings. People knew not to call him, as he did better over email. 

The job itself was easy, especially since he’d been doing the same one since he was twenty-two. Being the HR administrator for a tech company seemed fancier than it was. His job was to open the email, download the files, put the files in the information system, rinse and repeat. Occasionally he would draft up contracts and argue with the benefit administrators over live chat—again, no phones, he wasn’t any good at those—but that was rare. If he could avoid talking to people in general, he would.

People didn’t always understand him or interpret his tone correctly. For someone who worked in HR, he got in trouble far too often for not saying the right thing. He didn’t have the ‘people skills’ his boss Zachariah wanted him to have. During his performance review last year, Castiel thought it had been awfully harsh for Zachariah to say he didn’t have ‘a single social skill in that vessel you call a human body’. He thought his people skills were merely...rusty.

That was, unfortunately, a big downside to working from home; people skills. And more specifically, the lack of people. It was a double edged sword; Castiel had no people skills, and therefore had anxiety about talking to people, but because he didn’t talk to people, he had no people skills. He wanted friends, company—and if he dared to dream, even a companion—but the thought of having to interact his way into those relationships terrified him. 

Why couldn’t a nice, kind guy with the patience of a saint and a smile like Idris Elba’s just knock on his door and offer to stay forever? 

He could count the number of friends he had on one hand. If he was honest with himself, he really only needed half of the hand. He had enough family to count on one hand, but they made him want to cut his fingers off. For someone who had elected to adopt a teenage child instead of have her own baby, his mother sure had treated him like a burden.

Castiel contemplated all of this on a warm early-summer night as he leaned on a rough, probably-very-dirty brick wall outside of a nightclub, waiting to get in and using the time to people-watch. Unseen, he felt very alone as everyone else in the queue gathered in groups, chatting animatedly in various states of fancy dress. As the line moved forward, Castiel wondered anxiously if he’d even be let in—he hadn’t even had the foresight to put on something nicer than an old black t-shirt and jeans. 

He worried his way to the bouncer who waved away his ID and opened the door for him. 

“Thank you, Benny,” Castiel muttered, stepping onto a gum-spattered step and welcoming the music as it pounded in a crescendo from within the club.

The sturdy southern hunk rolled his eyes and responded with, “Just get inside.”

Benny always let him in because Castiel was a regular. While Castiel fumbled to put his ID back, he chastised himself for worrying about the damn dress code when the entire staff probably knew him anyway. Also, while he handed over a five dollar bill to Meg, an annoyed looking hostess popping bubble gum and accepting the entry fee at a tall bar table, Castiel mentally berated himself for passing his ID to the bouncer at all, as if he didn’t look every year of his 34 years.

Getting past Benny, handing his cash to Meg, and then buying a drink from the bar; each step uncurled the tight and taut ball of anxiety that normally lived in his chest. It was always there, like it had sunk thorny roots into his flesh and coiled around his organs. By the time he turned from the bar, tipping his head back and letting sharp whiskey burn down his throat, the last of his worries were extinguished by the amber liquid. _Poof._ He could practically hear the sizzle from his stomach of it fading away, curling up like smoke. As he pushed through people dancing, he liked to look up at the way the fog twisted through the strobe lights and pretend that it was his worries fucking right off.

In the crowd, surrounded by other writhing bodies, in nearly synchronized movement to the music, Castiel could let it go. He didn’t feel alone.

Others might’ve thought it was sad or even pathetic to dance alone, or even to arrive and leave alone. Sometimes, when he was completely sober and doing something mundane like waiting in front of the toaster for his bread to pop up, the worry crept into his brain and he thought that, sure, perhaps dancing alone was plain sad. But when he spent all of his days with only himself and Jack for company, being in a room with other people singing along to the same songs and writhing their bodies to the same rhythms...it didn’t feel lonely.

And it helped that sometimes, Castiel didn’t dance alone. He was terrible at a lot of things; public speaking, people skills, sarcasm, references to cartoons he hadn’t had the luxury of watching as a child, parallel parking… What he _wasn’t_ bad at was dancing. 

The one good thing his adoptive mother had ever gifted him with was dance classes. Sure, they were free because one of her clients taught the classes part-time at the YMCA, and mom wanted him out of the house so she could have her friends over for drinks, but dance classes had been one of the few memories he cherished from growing up. He’d taken whatever his mom’s friend had been teaching; hip-hop, contemporary… Hell, he’d even done Zumba when it was the only thing offered. Although, every time, he stuck to the back near the door and left quickly to avoid any small talk the other students might try to make. While he knew he was good at dance, he dreaded anyone who might tease him for being a tall, scrawny man in his early twenties, curling his hips along with the seniors and soccer moms. 

Once he’d gotten a job and moved into his own place after college—and his mother could wash her hands of him—the dance classes stopped, but he always had nightclubs. They opened and closed, and changed to new management too often for him to call one particular home, but _Heaven_ had been a home for him in the last few months. The music was good, the drinks were strong, the staff was efficient, and it was always crowded. If it was ever empty, the dancing alone thing might’ve been more obviously pathetic, but Heaven’s patronage filled the dance floor so eagerly that Castiel could hardly feel alone when there were bodies bumping into him at all angles.

Under the safety of the blanket of smoke pouring from the fog machines and nestled between about a hundred other people, Castiel felt worry and fear and anxiety drain from his body as _HEALTH’s ‘Stonefist’_ moved his body slowly. First feet, then thighs pulled languidly back and forth, the melody drawing a curl from his hips with every ethereal drone of _‘love’s not in our hearts’._ With eyes closed, he felt the thump and thrum up his legs and in his shoulders, and let his head curl forward a bit. Unsure of how much time passed, he let Sia’s ‘ _Titanium’_ , Daft Punk’s ‘ _Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’,_ and even retro J.Lo’s ‘ _Waiting on Tonight’_ pull him through the evening. A faint buzz from the single shot of whiskey he’d had warmed his cheeks but kept his head relatively clear. By the time Dua Lipa’s sensual voice poured over him like warm honey, he was entirely engaged and loose. 

The almost sci-fi electronic beats plucked and thumped through the air, slow at first. He got so into it, running his hands down the back of his own neck and beginning to raise them over his head as his hips twisted, that he didn’t initially realise his personal space had been invaded.

“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

Castiel looked up as someone yelled a stupid question in his face, his legs still moving, but his arms lowered to his waist. “ _Excuse me?_ ” he yelled over the music, perplexed.

A man with tousled and slightly sweat-damp dark sandy hair, stubble, a jawline like George Clooney, and softly broad shoulders grinned at him. “Dunno, thought I’d try it. Get it, because we’re in Heaven?”

Jokes. Right. “I get jokes,” Castiel blurted out.

The hunk cupped his ear and yelled, “What?”

“No!” Castiel yelled back, still swaying to the music because dear God, he needed to do something to not look like a confused idiot. “No, I-It didn’t hurt...though, actually, I imagine it might.”

“ _Riiight_ ,” the guy replied, then glanced up as the blue strobe lights changed to green as the beat picked up in the song. “So, uh—” the guy started mirroring Castiel’s movements—“you wanna dance or were you good doing your own thing?”

It was a novelty for someone to actually _ask_ , and Castiel appreciated it. Usually someone slid their hands on his hips and he just let them, assuming that was proper club etiquette. That’s how it had been at the college bars when he was in university and he hadn’t really thought there was much of an option. Though, he thought, consent was much sexier and this frankly gorgeous man was asking, so...

“Um—” Castiel said slowly, instead of just saying “ _yes, please dance with me, you are like a walking wet dream.”_

Cute Guy grinned, his smile crooked and lovely and—

“Just like Idris Elba,” Castiel whispered, linking his hands behind his own neck just so he’d have somewhere to put them that wasn’t his pockets or over his face in absolute humiliation because _what the hell had just come out of his mouth_ —

Cupping his ear again, Cute Guy yelled, “ _What?_ ”

Saved by the boom and buzz of the audio system, Castiel just nodded. He knew how to nod. Up and down, like humans do. 

That seemed to relay his message, “ _Yes, I will dance with you_ ,” and he shuffled forward, closer to his dance partner, who swallowed visibly and slid his hands over Castiel’s waist.

_“Don’t you agree?_

_You got me feelin’ diamond rich._

_Nothing else better compares to it._

_Don’t you agree?”_

For what was probably ten seconds, they swayed, with this guy’s hands on his waist and Castiel’s hands on his own neck. But as there was a dramatic ramp up to the music, Castiel was reminded that _dancing_ he knew how to do. Just as before the energetic chorus ("— _who needs to go to sleep when I’ve got you next to me?”)_ , he dropped his hands and licked at his lips, tilting his head back to soak in the beams of strobe lights, eyes sliding closed even as he felt the man’s gaze on his face. 

As the chorus thumped around them, he was inspired with a surge of bravery, jumping a bit, dropping his face again to smile at his partner. Together, their hands found each other’s—

_“All night, I’m right here with you,_

_I know you got my back,_

_and you know I got you, so come on_ —”

With a thrilled bit of laughter, Castiel let himself be guided under the guy’s arm in a twirl that wasn’t exactly fitting for the song, but the Idris Elba level grin was on Castiel like a spotlight and made it feel worth it. Especially because this guy smelled like woodsy cologne and leather, and his breath was minty as he appeared to chuckle.

Their hands joined, fingers linked, they swayed quickly—Castiel noticed, with a spike of glee, that he was much smoother of a dancer than his new partner. But the other guy made up for it in charm, pulling jokingly ‘sexy’ faces and sharing contagious smiles through the song. The song was upbeat and by the middle, he felt his hairline and face begin to sweat, and for his palms to get sticky. Still, while he would’ve otherwise felt mortified, Cute Guy watched their feet, his face red over his cheeks as he followed Castiel’s feet, not giving a crap about sweaty hands.

_“Hold on, just a little tighter, come on!_

_Hold on, tell me if you’re ready, come on!_

_Baby, keep on dancing._

_Let’s get physical—”_

From behind the vocals, a rhythmic clapping began and they broke apart in sync, Castiel bringing his hands over his head, unable to stop a giddy but shy smile from turning up the corners of his lips. As he dropped his head to enjoy the rhythm, he watched the other guy’s hands clap together in sync at his hips. His bow legs stepped from side to side, and it took a lot of effort for Castiel to pull his head up and gaze back up, away from thighs that strained light ripped denim as Cute Guy moved.

And as the song changed, smoothly transitioning from one beat to another, Castiel opened his mouth to say something akin to _“thanks_ ”, but instead, nothing came out and instead the breath he’d meant to exhale was sucked back in sharply as the guy stepped closer— _a lot closer_ —until they were so close their noses almost bumped. The beat slowed down significantly, and around them Castiel first noticed that everyone’s gait seemed to slow and hips were being dragged markedly more sensually before he realised that the song was _#1 Crush_. 

Of course one of the sexiest songs of all time would come on when an actual Adonis was dancing with him. 

Cute Guy’s grin slowly faded and as their hands joined blindly at their sides, Castiel felt their hot breath mingle and pick up—and he wasn’t sure it was entirely from the previous dance. He had to swallow a few times, and his eyes went wide, noticing the guy’s eyes flicking across his face, lingering on his lips.

Slowly, as their pelvises were drawn together and the slow, languid movement of their hips synced, Castiel realised their thighs were interlocked, denim rubbing on denim. While his mind seemed to go blank, the other guy pulled his hands away from Castiel’s and one of them slid around Castiel’s waist until it was flat against the middle of his back, the soft curve of his palm hugged comfortably in the dip of his spine. 

_“I would die for you,_

_I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side,_

_To know that you’re mine._

_I would cry for you._

_I would wash away your pain with all my tears,_

_And drown your fear.”_

Later Castiel would say that the sensuality of the song naturally called for it, but their bodies drew even closer than he thought possible and noses almost touching turned to noses touching and foreheads pressed together. He raised one hand loosely over their heads and his partner reached up, dragging his hand down the bare skin of Castiel’s forearm, leaving a tingling trail under his bicep...

_"I would pray for you,_

_I would pray for you._

_I will sell my soul for something pure and true…_

_Someone like you."_

The song picked up like a heartbeat, still slow and steady but insistent. It was exactly like the steady crawl of deep arousal, boiling his blood before pouring it down the center of his body, right down between his legs.

Their mouths were so close. His partner's hand drew a pattern up around his shoulder and dragged up his neck, and Castiel inhaled in a wheeze no one could hear when hot fingertips touched the sensitive skin under his jaw where he hadn’t been kissed for _years and years…_

Quickly, Castiel turned completely around, his heart slamming into his chest, hoping that this guy hadn’t felt the swelling in his pants. Gulping down air, he tilted his head back, hoping to feel some cool air on his face from the fans whirling on the balcony above the dance floor, but all that did was open up his neck to further gentle touches by warm fingertips.

_"I would lie for you,_

_Beg and steal for you._

_I will crawl on hands and knees until you see,_

_You’re just like me."_

The plan backfired; Castiel had turned around to avoid giving away the hardness in his jeans, but now he was all but rubbing his ass on the front of this guy’s jeans. His hands felt like they buzzed with worry that rushed back, and humiliation, ready for the guy to rush off or even worse, _confront_ him about it. But hands slid over his waist again, and a graze of thumbs brushing the base of Castiel’s ribs as firm palms guided their dance made the buzz fade and fizzle away, leaving a rush of excitement instead. It was only supplemented by the slide of skin and stubble as the guy pressed in close, their legs bracketed again and their faces pressed close. Castiel could feel the guys breath on his jaw and the tickle of his hair against his temple. If he just turned his face a bit, they might kiss, but…

Instead, they danced, and by the time the song finished, the guy’s hand was curled around Castiel’s front, pressing back against his middle, and Castiel might’ve turned his head just a bit, just enough for them to catch each other’s eye and hold the stare…

“WELCOME TO CLUB HEAVEN, MY PARTY PEOPLE! THANK YOU FOR JOINING US TONIGHT FOR FUNKY FRIDAY NIGHT, LIVE TO AIR FROM KANSAS 139.2. TWO-DOLLAR SHOTS FROM ELEVEN TO ONE. GET ‘EM WHILE YOU CAN, AND IN THE MEANTIME, DROP IT LIKE IT’S HOT!”

If Castiel was a violent person, he might’ve considered launching the DJ out the window for ruining the one chance he’d had for _someone_ to kiss him. It’d been so long—

“I’m Dean,” the guy said, his hands dropping from Castiel’s hip and stomach, taking a step back to allow for Castiel to turn around, which he did.

Oh no. Here came the social part. He’d said his name. _Say your name back, idiot._

“Castiel,” he blurted out.

Dean leaned in, “Calster?”

Well, it was better than ‘Casteel’, which he’d allowed his coworker Inias to call him for over a year because he’d been too nervous to correct him. Castiel opened his mouth and shook his head, about to repeat his name when Dean shrugged and grinned, pointing at the bar and making a drinking gesture with his hand.

 _He’s asking you if you want to drink_. _Up-down-nod, let’s go._

He up-downed with his head and followed numbly as Dean pressed a hot palm to his back and let him lead the way through the crowd. When they got to the bar, it was still insanely loud and they had to shout their orders to the bartender—Ruby, her name tag said—who nodded with an annoyed look on her face. Still, when she returned, she did a quick glance between them and lingered on Castiel, raising a brow. After accepting his drink from Dean, who turned for the briefest of seconds to retrieve his own, Castiel tilted his head at Ruby and scowled. He knew she was looking at Dean and thinking, _“Really? You’re buying a drink for the loner weirdo?”_

It was cutting, but true. Still, it wasn’t as if _nobody_ ever bought him drinks. He got plenty of drinks bought for him...there were just very few that bought him a _second_ drink after conversation. ‘I live alone with my dog’, ‘haven’t had a relationship in over a decade’, and ‘I work from home, usually in my pyjamas’ wasn’t the sexiest thing anyone had ever heard, usually. 

Regardless, after telling himself to keep that stuff in his head, he didn’t always have that much more to say. If those were dealbreakers, then ‘I was adopted by a problematic religious woman who hated children yet decided to homeschool me until college’ wasn’t an appropriate conversation topic either. 

But Dean was leaning on the bar now and Castiel mirrored his body language, although more stiffly. He was too busy dreading the small talk that would inevitably make him look like a weirdo that he missed Dean speaking to him completely.

“Pardon me?” Castiel yelled, leaning in a bit.

Much to his pleasure, Dean folded forward a bit, his face close, his charming grin in between pouty, full lips mere inches away. Louder, he asked, “I’m getting from your face earlier that I fucked up your name.”

 _Lean closer so he can hear you._ Clearing his throat—his monotone rasp was a mumble most of the time and that was in superb hearing conditions—he said in Dean’s ear, “Castiel.”

“ _Cas-t-iel?”_ Dean sounded out, his voice dancing with a chuckle, leaning back just enough to scan the features of his face. When Castiel nodded, Dean’s brows raised to his forehead. “That’s angelic as hell. Do you come to Heaven strictly to keep ‘in theme’?” Dean asked, making air quotes and raising his drink to his lips.

Castiel watched Dean’s bright smile spread, and noticed his straight teeth bite down on the straw poking out of the rum and coke. With a new kind of warmth buzzing under the skin of his cheeks, Castiel wondered if Dean was completely oblivious to the fact that he was stunning. It had been incredibly difficult to see him clearly out in the middle of the dance floor with the strobing lights and fog, but under the bar lights, Castiel could practically count the freckles and brilliant flecks in his eyes. 

“My birth mother was religious,” Castiel replied, shrugging. “The agency said I was born on a Thursday, and the name means ‘angel of Thursday’—”

His teeth clicked shut. Two minutes into meeting the guy and he’d already overshared and made it awkward. 

Although Dean pouted his lips and tilted his head. “Adopted?”

“Yes.”

“My half-brother is adopted,” Dean said conversationally, pausing to add, “Well, kinda. My mom adopted him.”

“That makes no sense,” Castiel said bluntly, before raising his beer to his mouth and drinking deeply like he should’ve done in the first place, instead of being rude as usual.

Dean shrugged a shoulder, pausing to adjust the red plaid button up that had slid off his shoulder. “Heh. Yeah, long story. Boring story.” 

Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. They both drank, staring at each other. It was rare that Castiel ran into anyone who stared as much as he did. His mom had scolded him for it his entire life, saying it was rude. But Dean was doing an obvious sweep of his face, and Castiel coloured again when he was very obviously checked out.

He shifted on his feet, rooting around for something to say before Dean decided he was too awkward to stand any longer. 

So he asked, “Are you employed?”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth and not “So what do you do?” Castiel wondered if he should just put his drink down, turn on his heel, and go home. Or maybe lay down in traffic outside the club and wait for a taxi to run him over.

Dean seemed to choke on his drink and had to snap a hand up to his chin to catch the dribble before it speckled his shirt. “Oh, wow, okay—”

“That was rude,” Castiel admitted, snatching a small white napkin from the counter beside the limes to hand to Dean. “I-I’m—”

Accepting the paper and wiping at his chin and neck, Dean coughed a bit and said, “No, no, it’s fine. It’s just, if I knew I was going to be interviewed, I would’ve brought a resume or put on a tie.”

Home. Castiel was going home. Quickly, he set down his nearly untouched drink and reached back into his pocket, flipping open his wallet. “I’m going to go. Thank you for the dance. Please, um, let me pay you for—”

“No need to pay me for the dance,” Dean said, cracking a grin and throwing the napkin down onto the counter. “Though I know I’m a regular twinkle-toes.”

“No!” Castiel said, raising his hand and feeling mortified, his eyes wide. “No, I mean for the drink. Thank you but—”

Dean’s fingers were warm as they pushed at Castiel’s hands. “Dude, relax. I’m just joking.”

Feeling incredibly stupid and so embarrassed his vision felt like it was vibrating, Castiel lowered his wallet slowly, licking his lips—God, he was so thirsty. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

Dean tilted his head to catch Castiel’s eye as he tried to look away. “You wanna get out of here? It’s hard to talk when we’re screaming at each other.”

 _It’s hard to talk all the time,_ Castiel thought, but he shrugged and said, “I’ve been rude. I should let you go.”

He turned to leave, desperate to get home and take off his pants and sit with Jack, who would be bored to doggy-tears as Castiel ranted about how much of a lonely idiot he was, but at least the dog wouldn’t judge him. To his surprise, though, he felt Dean’s hand grab his arm.

“Hey,” Dean said, and Castiel felt like smacking him for the amused smirk on his face. “Let’s try again. Hi, I’m Dean. I’m 31, and I own my own business. My half-brother is adopted because my dad cheated on my mom when we were younger and she was a fuckin’ saint, so she adopted my half-brother when his mom died. Also, I’d like to have a whole-ass drink with you, so how about we get out of here?”

They were standing close again, Castiel having had turned right around, right into Dean’s personal space. 

They stared at each other as Rob Zombie growled and yowled from the speakers. 

“It’s past midnight, everywhere is closed,” Castiel said quickly, blinking.

Dean’s hand eased up on his arm but to his surprise, it slipped down and linked with his fingers. “How about your place? You live close?”

Oh… Dear God. Dean wanted to have sex. With him. 

Castiel hadn’t had sex in so long that he wondered if he even remembered how. He’d had two hook-ups in his life; one had been April, a friend-of-an-acquaintance in college that ended up being mean about it afterwards, and the other had been with...Castiel didn’t like to remember that one, it made him shudder.

Did he even have condoms? He certainly had lube, though he’d have to find a sneaky way to grab it from his computer desk drawer without Dean seeing.

Or...perhaps he just wanted to...talk?

“Five minute walk,” Castiel said, swallowing his nerves before they leeched any more confidence from him. “It’s a five minute walk.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, winking. “Let’s do it.”

***

The walk to Castiel’s condominium was quick, and the conversation between him and Dean was less traumatizing than it had been inside the club, but that was mostly because Castiel let Dean do all the talking. They chatted about the neighbourhood and the club scene. Dean was “more of a dive bar kinda guy”, but had decided to visit Heaven after moving to this part of town and “wanting to try something new, something different for the first time”. Castiel was unsure what he meant by that, but by the time he decided he wanted to ask, Dean was talking about how annoyed and robbed he felt by the five dollar entry fee.

“Whoa,” Dean mumbled, whistling as they entered Castiel’s building, trudging in behind Castiel after he opened the door with his key fob. He peered around, pausing to wink at the security guard Gad before returning to stare at Castiel with _ridiculously green eyes_ while they waited for the elevator. “Fancy building. A lot nicer than my place, I’ll tell ya. The only security I got in my building is the piece of rusty piping I left behind my door from when I replaced my toilet last year.”

“Why would you keep a toilet pipe?” Castiel asked with a tilt of his head, his deep, raspy voice a bit hoarser than usual after having to yell at the club. He didn’t do a whole lot of talking during the day, much less find a reason to raise his voice. 

Dean pulled a hand from his jean pockets and half-laughed. “I didn't mean to _keep_ it, I just forgot about it. I… Dude, you gotta press the button.”

Willing his face to not heat up and flush with embarrassment, Castiel grunted in agreement and pressed the elevator button, staring up at the numbers instead of Dean to regroup his nerves.

He only lived on the fourth floor, so the elevator ride was quick, but Dean managed to tell him all about why his toilet had been replaced. It was “old as shit”, and Castiel spent at least twenty seconds straight-faced, trying to determine if that was a poop pun and trying to decide if he should be laughing. By the time he decided he should have laughed, it was too late. So, instead, he stood stiffly against the elevator railing and stared at himself in the mirrored wall, trying to figure out why this gorgeous man wanted to come back to his place to ‘talk’ when Castiel looked so gross. Sweaty and flushed, his hair a mess and still kind of damp at his temples. He wondered if he should jump in the shower first, just in case—

_Ding!_

The elevator doors slid open and Dean stopped going on about toilets. “Uh, this is us?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, after clearing his throat and leading the way. His door was just outside the elevator, so he immediately began fumbling for his keys. “Just, um, give me a moment, I have to straighten up.”

Dean waved a hand through the air. “Don’t straighten up for me, honestly, I—”

Asia’s _Heat of the Moment_ blared from Dean’s pocket, interrupting him. As Castiel drove his key into the lock, he glanced at Dean, who was scowling down at his phone.

“You can take that call, I’ll be back in just a moment,” Castiel murmured, pushing open the door.

Shaking his head, Dean started, “Nah, it’s nothing. Not import—”

“Okay, thanks,” Castiel said in a rush, sliding into his apartment and shutting the door quickly behind him. Sometimes he wasn’t sure when he was being rude; he was normally very blunt and honest, never always sure if what he was saying was the right thing, and oftentimes he was oblivious to it until too late, but this time, he knew he’d been rude.

But Jack had a habit of climbing up onto things, ripping up cereal boxes and scattering Cheerios all over the apartment, or getting into stashed bags of candy and then throwing up all over the carpet, so some things _needed_ to be checked before Dean came in. 

Also, Castiel thought as he ran over to his work desk, rummaging through the junk drawer beside his keyboard, he needed to get the lube somewhere appropriate, that wasn’t completely sad and pathetic. With the half-empty bottle in hand, he ran to the bedroom and threw it into his side drawer beside an old watch that didn’t work any more, his passport, and a few Tums that had rolled out of their crumpled foil package. 

Jack trotted after him, jumping and barking, entirely thrilled that he was home. Castiel could practically hear him, “ _YOU’RE HOME. OH BOY, YOU’RE HOME. HELLO, HUMAN!”_

“Not now, Jack,” Castiel whisper-yelled, jerking the top off of his deodorant and frantically putting it on. “Please, do not do anything embarrassing. I need this.”

Jack yelped and hopped on the bed, quickly dropping his bum down to sit and waved his paw in the air as if to say, “ _YES. ABOUT THAT; HELLO.”_

Throwing the deodorant back into the top drawer of his dresser, Castiel groaned and leaned over, grabbing Jack by his face and planting a kiss on his cheek just under his ear. “Okay, yes. I love you, too,” he said to the small, excited dog, whose tail wagged a mile a minute after the show of affection. “Now, please do not pee on anything. I am asking nicely.”

The dog barked and hopped off the bed, running into the living room like he hadn’t just been given a direct request to act casual. Running back towards the door, trying to avoid Jack who suddenly had the zoomies—his nails _tick-tick-tick-tick-_ ing all over the wood of his living room and the tiling in the kitchen—Castiel did a quick sweep of the condo to make sure everything was neat and orderly. Before he opened the door, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to make himself look neater, but he knew there was no hope.

When he tugged open the door, Dean was leaning on the frame with his forearm and his knee-weakening smirk was curled on his lips.

“You hide all the bodies?”

“What? No, I—”

Dean’s eyes left his face and did a sweep of his place over his shoulders, his lips doing a pout. “Damn, nice place, Cas.”

 _Cas_. Well. That was certainly lovely rolling off of Dean’s tongue.

“Can I come in or are we gonna hang out here?” Dean asked, raising a brow and winking. “If that’s the case, can I at least get a chair?”

First it was talking. Now it was hanging out. Castiel hadn’t been in the dating scene for a while, but that seemed like a good sign for potential sex. 

Stepping aside, Castiel said, “No, come in. I have a dog, I hope you don’t mi—”

Jack bounded out of the kitchen and instead of behaving like a normal dog, he just flailed and skidded across the hardwood, sliding right into Dean’s ankles before making a floppy recovery and jumping onto his legs.

“I’m so sorry—Jack, _stop_.”

Dean did look a bit uncomfortable, but to his credit, he reached out and petted Jack on the head after Castiel swooped the tiny dog into his arms to rein him in. 

“Come… Come in,” Castiel sighed, throwing Jack a scowl. In response, Jack’s tail thumped him on the back and he began licking Castiel’s shirt with glee. 

The door closed behind Dean and Castiel let Jack free in the kitchen, distracting him with a handful of food sprinkled onto the floor—the dog didn’t know the difference between food and treats, only that food came from the bowl and treats came from Castiel’s hand. 

“You, uh, live alone?” Dean asked from the living room. “Got any roommates?”

With Jack preoccupied, Castiel made his way back into the living room where Dean stood, leaning a bit on the side of the couch, staring around at the neat shelving filled with books, and DVDs that hadn’t been watched in years, and cases of video games Castiel still bought in hard copy. He hadn’t been given many things as a kid, so possessions were important to him—almost to a fault. The only thing messy in the room was his work desk, where empty cups of coffee went to die and piles of files waited to be shredded. On either side, there were filing cabinets of junk from 2001 that had been mailed to him that hadn’t fit in the archives and needed to be entered in still.

“No roommates,” Castiel replied, standing awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen. “I live alone...with Jack. But he’s a dog.”

Dean paused in his visual puruse of the room and smirked at Castiel, a brow raised. “Yeah, I gathered that he’s a dog.”

“Right, of course.”

They stared at each other, and while the silence was awkward, it did not go unnoticed how Dean’s eyes—so green, Castiel felt robbed that he hadn’t known how lush and foresty those eyes had been in the club under those lights—trailed down over Castiel’s body. Embarrassed, Castiel glanced down at himself, mentally berating himself for not changing into something nicer when he’d had the chance. _But_ then again, Dean would know he’d obviously changed and Castiel didn’t want to look like he was trying _too_ hard—

Castiel glanced up at Dean, his eyes dragging down his body, too, and he felt his mouth go dry. Dean was tall and had nice, broad shoulders. He was muscled, but only softly, and he leaned against the couch casually. He had his hands in his jeans pockets, and his red button up was open over a white t-shirt. He was quite handsome…

God, he was so thirsty.

“Would you like a drink?” Castiel asked, rubbing his hot palms with his fingers at his sides. 

Dean nodded, walking over and following Castiel into the kitchen. “Sure, what’d you got?”

He fixed Dean a drink, and ‘accidentally’ poured a bit extra in his own, hoping that a bit of a buzz could kill the nerves making his skin feel like it was vibrating. When he handed the drink to his new companion, Dean raised the drink in the air. 

“Cheers,” Dean said, white teeth poking out the side of his crooked smile. “Here’s to, uh, being able to hear each other speak.”

They drank, standing against Castiel’s clean grey granite counter, facing each other. 

“So, uh, what do you do?” Dean asked with his brows raised before he teased, “ _Are you employed_?”

It was Castiel’s turn to choke on his drink, some of it accidentally sputtering back into his glass. As Dean laughed, Castiel felt like turning on his heel, opening his fridge, pulling out the groceries and climbing in so he could die. And whilst dying, perhaps cool down a bit from the humiliation of being a big fucking loser.

“I work from home,” Castiel said through a small cough, wiping whiskey off his chin with his wrist. “Human resources.”

“Nice,” Dean said, like working in HR was cool—which was nice of him because it most certainly was not. Noticeably, he did not say anything about the choking but had definitely watched the amber liquid dribble down his chin. “So what? You fire people over the phone? _Crrrttch_ — _Sorry, Karen, can’t hear you so well, you’re breaking up. Also, you’re fired. Click._ ” 

Dean mimed hanging up a phone and grinned.

“I don't fire anyone,” Castiel said roughly, sipping from his glass and _finally_ feeling his nerves calm a bit as the spirit warmed his insides and left the residual taste of citrus and cinnamon on his tongue. “I _do_ receive termination papers and deactivate employees in the system. File their records of employment with the government, sort out any remaining statutory owings, and the like. It’s… I imagine most people would find it rather boring.”

Dean shrugged, but gestured into the living room with his glass, the liquid sloshing in it and threatening to spill over. Under Dean’s hand, settled by his feet, Jack licked his lips and drooled a bit, his tail wagging fast and tapping against Dean’s boot. _Alcoholic,_ Castiel muttered in his head to the dog who was known to lick the top of beer cans… Or even topple a few over on purpose to have a drink when Castiel left the cans unattended.

“Pretty sweet setup, if you ask me.” Dean chuckled, pulling the whiskey glass against his chest as he noticed Jack hop up a bit and press a paw to his knee. After doing a double take at the puppy, his lip twitching, Dean explained, “I own a music store on the other side of town and got a staff of like three, so, uh, I’m kinda there most of the time.”

Tilting his head, Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I can’t imagine a music store doing well these days, with streaming services at the peak of their popularity.”

“Eh.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ve had to start selling retro video games and rare books to appease to the nerds and stuff. To, y’know, supplement the decline in music sales, but hipsters love vinyl, so, uh…”

They stared at each other as another wave of awkward silence threatened to swallow them. Castiel rifled through his catalogue of small talk topics he could use, but Dean saved him by adding jokingly, “So basically what I’m trying to say is that, yes, I’m employed.”

“Me too,” Castiel said, crossing his arms over his chest. _Look relaxed, act natural._

Dean grinned again, and it occurred to Castiel how stupid he’d sounded. “I-I just mean—”

“So we’ve both got jobs, that’s good,” Dean chuckled roughly, his voice a rumble. Castiel watched with his lips parted as Dean tossed back his drink, the notch of his throat bobbing. It was lovely. 

Hissing from the burn, Dean set aside his glass and stepped closer. “So, you go to Heaven often?”

Oh, well. He was getting closer and he smelled _wonderful_ and Castiel desperately hoped he smelled okay, too.

“Once in a while,” Castiel replied after a second of pause, realising he hadn’t spoken back immediately, instead opting to stare into Dean’s eyes. “I...It gets...I’m just on my own all of the time, it can be lonely. Heaven—I mean going out, really, anywhere. It’s—” He was getting closer, the hot guy who made Castiel forget words. Oh boy. Nervous, he blurted out, “People are nice.”

“People are nice,” Dean parroted, slowly raising his brows.

 _He thinks I’m insane,_ Castiel thought with an internal groan. _He might be right, too._

It was Castiel’s turn to tip his head back and drain his glass. Making a face and shuddering—whiskey was barely good via small sips, it was _disgusting_ taken all in one go — Castiel set down the cup with a hard _clack_ , and rubbed at his mouth, wiping the thin liquid from his dry lips. 

“Since I’m alone for most of my days, it’s a welcome reprieve to be around other people. Even if the sporadic conversations must be shouted,” Castiel rasped, feeling social exhaustion settle into his shoulders. “That...probably sounds pathetic.”

As he’d spoken, Castiel’s gaze had dropped to a small lump under Dean’s shirt. It was spiky; a necklace or pendant maybe. Whatever it was, it was a good focus point to avoid looking into Dean’s face and seeing regret or exasperation.

“Nah,” Dean murmured quietly, lowering his own eyes to the ground, looking thoughtful and calm when Castiel looked up long enough to notice. 

“No?”

“Nah. I get it. It’s cool.”

“That’s a relief,” Castiel muttered, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He almost didn’t mean to be heard, but when Dean huffed a bit in amusement, he dropped his eyes, locking them with twinkling green orbs that searched his face.

“A relief?” Dean repeated, licking his lips.

“I… I know I’m awkward,” Castiel admitted, sighing heavily. “You’ve been patient, but please do not feel obligated to stay.”

“Dude, no, listen—”

Castiel began fussing with the counter, pulling crumbs from his breakfast into his hand and sprinkling them into the sink before he grabbed his glass and started rinsing it under water.

“Sometimes I make people feel uncomfortable.”

Dean was staring at him with his lips parted, gaping a bit like a fish. “Well, meeting people at bars and stuff isn’t always smooth. It’s always kinda awkward, so don’t beat yourself up, man.”

Castiel felt a warm hand on his elbow as he reached for blue dish soap, wanting to be doing something with his hands. At the touch, he stopped suddenly, turning his head to look at Dean in puzzlement. The guy was suddenly close, smiling at him almost fondly, his green eyes a honey-hazel from the warm-tinted under-cabinet lights glowing on one side of his face. 

“So, um—” Castiel exhaled heavily, his chest rising and falling. “You said you don’t come to nightclubs often. What made you, um, want to venture into one?”

Dean leaned his hip on the counter again, his hand falling from Castiel’s arm, dropping back down to his side before it slid into his jean pocket. Shrugging one shoulder, Dean watched Castiel’s hands as he dried the glass with a washcloth. “Wanted to try something different.”

“Did you come with anyone?” Castiel asked, hoping dearly that he hadn’t robbed this man out of someone else’s arms. “Um, friends? A… A partner?”

Dean’s eyes flicked up quickly and he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No, no. No partner or anything. Heaven’s...different. I don’t got any friends I’d want to bring with me.”

Different. Yes. It was true; there was a reason Castiel frequented that place. It wasn’t a gay-club per say, but it was openly one of Lawrence’s LGBTQ+ and ally-friendly clubs. The unspoken understanding was that if someone passed through the threshold of Heaven, then judgement was to be left at the door. And if that was an issue, Benny had the patience of a hungry mountain lion and muscles of a pitbull, so troublemakers found themselves face first in the street quicker than they could say ‘bigot’. 

After a few bad experiences at other clubs he’d tried, it had been a conscious decision to stick to this one. 

Castiel turned off the tap and they stood in silence. Dean stared down at the floor, dragging the toe of his shoe over the grout in between the large grey tiling of Castiel’s kitchen. Castiel watched him quietly for a moment, then he said, “None of your friends know?”

“No, they know,” Dean murmured to the floor, his jaw clenching, all of the light-heartedness lost from his face. He almost looked angry. “Most of ‘em anyway. My brother, too, but...being out is kinda new for me.”

The glass was drying in Castiel’s hand, his skin wet from the water, too. But he was still, aware he had been incredibly rude and presumptuous. Yet, something made him say; “You’d never know. You’re a natural.”

At that, Dean looked up, his chin still ducked down and Castiel thought he saw a tiny spark of amusement reignite in his eyes. “Only came out last year, so I had thirty years of practice in my head of dancing with other dudes at clubs.”

The cup clinked as Castiel set it to dry beside the faucet. “Like I said, “ Castiel murmured, rubbing his hands on his jeans, “you’re a natural.”

Dean lifted his head entirely and smiled again, crossing his arms over his chest again. Confidence seemed to leech back into him. “It helped that I had a dance partner who actually had rhythm. Pretty smooth for a homebody.”

Castiel scrunched his face and said in a joking whisper, “I choreograph a lot of dances in my living room on lunch break.”

Dean’s entire body language changed as he threw his head back in a booming laugh, arching back a bit and clapping. “Dude,” he chortled, “stop.”

“Jack enjoys them,” Castiel murmured, allowing himself to enjoy the small, budding buzz of butterflies awakening from the dead in his stomach like zombies. Dean’s laugh was almost as nice as his voice and _almost_ as nice as those eyes. 

“You’re funny,” Dean said with his beaming face fading into a strangely fond smile.

Castiel scratched at his cheek and rumbled, “Only by accident.”

“And you’re a good dancer,” Dean added, raising his brows and pointing two finger-guns at him. “A really good one.”

It was, admittedly, his one and only talent. His fingers lingered on his own jawline and Castiel nodded. “Yes. I know how to move my body, although mostly when I think no one is paying attention to me. That helps.”

And that was when the tone shifted.

Dean stepped closer—nearly as close as he’d been at the club—and settled his hand on the edge of the sink, his fingertips touching the fine hair on Castiel’s arm. For what seemed like the millionth time that night, Castiel noticed Dean’s eyes search his face and finally settle on his lips with a hungry quality that made Castiel’s mouth water. 

“How do you move your body if it’s only one person paying attention to you?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse and low. “Special attention.”

The dead silence in the kitchen was broken by Castiel’s sharp inhale when Dean’s other hand came up and cupped the side of his neck, his thumb brushing under his jaw—again, in that one place Castiel loved to be touched, to be kissed…

“I’m fairly talented one-on-one,” Castiel breathed, not at all knowing if that was true. His experience with men existed but only in brief. He’d done the basics with others and more...complicated acts with his left hand, but…

“You look flushed,” Dean murmured, the tip of his nose brushing Castiel’s, his cinnamon breath warm on the skin of his lips. “Is this okay?”

Words, mouth, open, close...all that equalled speech, but the concepts were stuck under a lump in Castiel’s throat. Knowing that his eyes were wide and he probably looked nervous, Castiel forcibly swallowed and reassured Dean before he changed his mind and left. “This is very okay.”

“You’re not too drunk?”

“No. Are you?”

Dean laughed, low and more sultry than should be allowed by law. “It takes a lot more than two glasses of whiskey to get me drunk, Cas.”

_Cas._

Again, the name did a number of terrible, horrible, amazing things to his knees and stomach. The butterflies went insane, flapping and throwing themselves around like they wanted to burst from inside him and fly free. The name made him feel special. It almost made it seem like they were friends.

While he wasn’t drunk, Castiel’s face tingled where Dean dragged his finger slowly over his jaw and then back, dragging his nails through Castiel’s hair, curling in whorls around locks at the nape of his neck. It was with concerted effort that Castiel didn’t let his eyes close as Dean’s warm palm settled on the back of his neck.

“Is this okay, too?” Dean whispered.

“Everything is okay,” Castiel murmured, and this time his eyes did close.

Dean’s lips were warm and soft. Pillowy and tender and delicious. Castiel worried about his dry ones, but the worry faded quickly as Dean made a sighing sound of contentedness and kissed him deeper, having no apparent concerns about dryness. Castiel’s tongue slipped out shyly, licking its way into Dean’s mouth, testing the waters, hoping this could go farther…

Dean’s lips opened for him and as soon as it did, Castiel felt a dam burst. One of his hands came up to Dean’s face, holding that chiseled jaw in his palm while his other arm tightened around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer. 

With nothing but cotton shirts and flannel between them, their chests heaved against each other and Castiel moaned, dragging his hungry lips down over Dean’s lower lip, nipping gently, before he was kissing down his neck. 

Dean swallowed what sounded like a hybrid of a grunt and a moan, letting Castiel twist them both until Dean’s ass was bouncing against the edge of the counter. Like a gentleman, Dean tilted his head to the side and let Castiel lick his way up his neck, sucking on a spot under Dean’s ear that made Dean keen and breathe, “Oh, fuck.”

Castiel would have red trails down his back if he had been shirtless… And with that thought, mid-hickey, Castiel wrenched the red plaid off Dean’s shoulders, helping him tug it off his arms. It landed on the floor somewhere, wrapped around the leg of a chair, but neither cared to catalogue it. Nor did they care for the white and black t-shirts that joined it.

With less clothing in the way, Castiel discovered that the lump under Dean’s shirt had been a pendant on a black leather rope; some kind of Mayan looking thing. And Dean had a tattoo on his chest over his heart, a pentagram enclosed in a circle and surrounded by spiked rays of sun. It was hot—

“You have tattoos,” Dean rasped, staring down at Castiel’s ribs where black symbols formed a block over his ribs. “They’re Enochian.”

Castiel’s head snapped up and he asked in shock, “You know about Enochian?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder and panted, “Yeah, my little brother went through a witchcraft phase in high school. Thought he was a witch or a magician or whatever, and he's a nerd, too, so he had all these books. Was tryna learn Latin and all these ancient languages and shit. I just remember Enochian because it looked like numbers.” Dean’s brows furrowed and he poked Castiel in the ribs between the lines of the ancient language. “Why do _you_ know about Enochian?”

Castiel glanced down at his tattoo and found himself laughing breathily, perplexed that a random club hookup knew his tattoo was Enochian. “I...got this when I left home. An act of revolt against my mother, you could say. In my young adult angst, I thought it would be poetic to get an anti-angel ritual etched into my skin in the very language of angels.”

“Rebel,” Dean murmured with a grin, and even though they were strangers, Castiel got the sense that he was proud of him.

Of all of the things anyone had ever said about him—’loser’, ‘loner’, ‘weird’, ‘pathetic’, ‘anti-social’—’rebel’ was not among them. It was empowering, a feeling Castiel seldom experienced.

Feeling a rush of confidence and rare self-esteem, Castiel hooked his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, crushing their lips together. Dean melted into him, sliding his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, holding his face close almost crushingly. The otherwise silent kitchen filled with sounds of their kissing, wet, ferocious, sloppy.

Dean twisted them around again, this time pushing Castiel up against the counter. He kissed across Castiel’s jaw and then, beautifully, licked a stripe under his jaw, punctuating it with a quick peck. With that, the hardness in his jeans knew no restraint and Castiel had to reach between them, pressing the base of his palm into his jeans with a groan.

“Let me,” Dean murmured into his collarbone, before humming across Castiel’s chest and nipping at the subtle curves of his lean abdomen while his hands worked at Castiel’s zipper. The top of the jeans were peeled away, and Castiel watched Dean sink down to his knees.

_Oh, God. This is happening._

His hands shot back and grasped the edges of the sink, his knees trembling as he looked down at Dean, watching his fingers tug down his briefs and jeans until they puddled around his ankles. With his heart pounding in his throat and heat pooled at the base of his cock, Castiel felt entirely overwhelmed at the sight of Dean’s mouth parted, his breath hot on the tip of his cock. 

“Can I suck you off?” Dean rasped, his mouth closing for a brief second as he swallowed.

Unable to imagine a universe where he’d say no, Castiel nodded in a quick downward jerk of his head, and it was all the permission Dean needed.

The next minute of Castiel’s life consisted of nothing but Dean’s pink tongue darting out and licking a stripe from the base of his cock to the end, where he caught a bead of pre-come on his tongue and swallowed with a pleased hum.

Outside in the living room, Jack whined in boredom, but Castiel could not give less of a shit. He was busy trying to hold the fabric of his entire being together as Dean began to suckle on the end of his dick, his cheeks hollowing out, emphasizing those high cheekbones and perfect jawline. His pillowy lips were just as warm and soft stretched around Castiel’s cock as they’d been on his face, and his tongue was just the perfect amount of rough as it licked away at his head like it was candy.

Somewhere between the gentle oral ministrations and the head of his cock hitting the back of Dean’s throat, Castiel’s fingers ended up in his hair. “You..are...very good at th-this.”

Coincidentally, Dean jerked his head back a bit, coughing into his hand and wincing. “I’m not great at...when it goes too deep, y’know? S-Sorry.”

Jerking his hands away, Castiel froze. “Don’t apologize, Dean. Did I—”

“No, no!” Dean said, waving a hand, sniffling wetly and rubbing under his nose with his wrist. With a shake of his head, Dean reached up and took Castiel’s wrists, gently pulling them back down to the side of his head. “I, uh, like these here. And...And I like when you fuck my mouth.”

Castiel was convinced he was dreaming and in a porno. No one spoke to him that way. Ever. Well, no one other than the porn stars that did ASMR blow-job roleplays that Castiel listened to sometimes in order to fall asleep.

“I...I can fuck your mouth,” Castiel croaked, his voice broken, shattered like glass all over the kitchen floor with his and Dean’s clothing. “I can go slow, shallow?”

Between his palms, Dean nodded and for the love of God...he parted his lips. They parted like their sole purpose was to be Fuck Me Lips for Castiel’s cock to slide into.

It was pure pornography the way Castiel’s cock sat on Dean’s bottom lip and slid inside, the head dragging over Dean’s tongue and rubbing up over the soft roof of his mouth. Obediently, Dean sucked. 

And when he pulled out, slowly, it was his undoing how his deep pink cock shined wetly with spit. Dean’s spit. Castiel even pulled all the way out just to watch the string of saliva connect him to the Greek god that, for some reason, was worshiping him instead.

Dean moaned and hummed around his shaft, his face going pink and blotchy in what was probably the most arousing flush Castiel had ever seen. It was all down his neck and down his chest, furling out under his tattoo and down his sternum like an exquisite watercolour painting. With every roll of his hips, smooth and slow like a controlled but intoxicating dance, Castiel was drawn closer to the brink of orgasm. He knew it was frowned upon to come too early, so a few times he pulled out completely and pulled his hand from Dean’s head to hold his own cock and rub it over Dean’s puffy, used lips.

“I’m… I’m going to…” Castiel swallowed, his throat dry, his usual rasp knocked down a few more octaves and dragged through gravel. “Where, um—”

“Yeah, uh…” Dean shifted on his knees, wincing. “In, um… On my hands is fine. Just gimme warning.”

It didn’t take much time for Castiel to come. It took measured breathing to control himself, but soon he felt that familiar swell of pleasure that followed the imploding pressure. “I’m coming,” was all he could choke out in time for Dean to pull off his cock, as his balls pulled up close to his body, urging the warm rumble of his orgasm to burst from the end of his cock. 

He spilled over Dean’s hand as it stroked him, his come dripping over his fingers and onto the floor between Dean’s legs. Castiel gasped and tilted his head back, his eyes sliding closed as pulses of pleasure finished in soft waves.

When he finally came back down, blinking hard to clear the blur from his vision that normally followed his orgasms, he licked his lips and looked down at Dean. Dean was staring at Castiel’s cock in his hands as it went limp, looking a bit far-away.

He was visibly jogged out of it when Castiel reached down and pressed a hand to his shoulder, helping him to his feet. Loudly, Dean’s knees cracked and they shared a wince.

“Yeah, wow, ow,” Dean groaned, rubbing at his knees. “My knees are not equipped for that in my thirties.”

Castiel was still catching his breath, but he puffed out, “I imagine kitchen floor blowjobs were easier in your twenties.”

To his surprise, Dean flashed him a quick skeptical smile as he leaned past him to turn on the sink and rinse off his hands. “I wasn’t giving blowjobs in my twenties. It’s a new development.”

Recalling his clumsy tumble into his sexuality and the absolute terror of being open about it so late in life, Castiel smiled gently. “Me too.”

Dean looked a bit surprised but relieved, averting his eyes to mumble in the direction of his hands as he soaped them up and scrubbed them under the rushing water. “So you get it.”

“I do,” Castiel said quietly, leaning over to tug his pants up, shimmying them over his hips and tucking his damp cock back in his briefs, wincing a bit in discomfort.

After an awkward moment where Dean washed his hands in silence and then wiped them on his jeans following a brief but aborted attempt to find paper towel, Castiel spoke up again.

“Can...I return the favour? Or do you have to leave?”

Dean glanced at his shirt on the floor—obviously he wanted to leave, Castiel thought, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. 

“If you have to leave, I underst—”

“No. No. I’d, uh—” Dean scratched at his cheeks, a smile creeping back onto his lips—“like that.”

“I have a couch where you could sit. Or I have a bed.” 

Dean snorted. “This is a very high-tech apartment, I see.”

“I-I didn’t mean—”

Thankfully, it appeared Dean was a merciful man. He leaned in and kissed Castiel quickly, the peck he planted on his lips brief but still immeasurably reassuring. “Show me that bed.”

Feeling a bit breathless, whether from the orgasm or from the welcoming scent of cinnamon and citrus, Castiel nodded, pointing out to the living room. “Bedroom is through there.”

Dean nodded and led the way, pausing only to joke, “Wait, you have a _room_ for this bed? An entire room?”

With warmth coursing through him that kept his nerves at bay, Castiel smiled. “It’s quite impressive. Four walls, and a door. It has everything.”

Pointing wrongly at the door to the bathroom, Dean raised his eyebrows in question. “Through here?” 

Castiel put his hands on Dean’s hips, taking a chance that he wasn’t doing the wrong thing, and turned him a bit to the left to face the proper door. 

“No,” he joked in his low rumble, even scoffing a little, “that’s where I hid the bodies.”

Dean bared his teeth nervously, but Castiel reached past him and pushed open the door to the bedroom, gesturing inside to the neatly made bed cocooned in a plain grey comforter, lit dimly by the one lamp that kept the room cast in a warm light. 

“You have a morgue,” Dean chuckled nervously. “That’s good.”

“Also known as a bathroom,” Castiel replied, sliding past Dean to enter his room. “You’re free to use it, just don’t disturb the corpses.”

While he did glance at the bathroom door, Dean licked his lips and stepped into the bedroom, shaking his head. “You’re a weird dude.”

Castiel dropped down onto his bed, sitting on the edge. With a wince, he admitted solemnly, “I’m much better at blowjobs than jokes. I’m sorry.”

He thought that the night which had taken an upturn was now plummeting back down to an awkward mess, but when he looked up from the carpet which—oh God, Jack had indeed peed beside the laundry bin—Dean was standing in front of him, his fingers slow as they worked the top button of his pants open.

Castiel’s mouth went dry at the outline of a fairly sizeable dick through the denim. It took everything in his lonely, horny little heart not to reach out and rub it.

“You willing to prove it?” Dean asked, tugging the zipper down slowly. 

Yes, Castiel thought, sliding off the bed and onto his knees on the rug with a _thump_. Yes, he was.


	2. Read Receipts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I'd be posting once a week? Well, once a week _minimum_ 'cause I have no patience and like to upload. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter. Dean's behaving like a bit of a dickwad, but that's in character for him and we know there's always more than meets the eye with Mr. Eldest Winchester.
> 
> Big ol' thanks to malmuses, sobsicles, lawful_feral_merit, and kradarua for beta'ing this chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!

> _Dean | 10:14am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ when does ur flight land
> 
> Sam | 10:17am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): Friday at 4 o’clock. You picking me up?
> 
> _Dean | 10:18am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ yupppp. 
> 
> Sam | 10:21am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): Cool, thanks. How’s dad?
> 
> _Dean | 10:23am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ same. Doing ok. u gonna visit him while ur here?
> 
> Sam | 10:29am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): maybe.
> 
> Sam | 10:30am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): how are you doing? I called last night but you didn’t pick up.
> 
> _Dean | 10:37am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ was busy.
> 
> Sam | 10:38am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): busy? It was like 1am
> 
> _Dean | 10:40am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ was hooking up with some dude, jeez you want gory details?
> 
> Sam | 10:41am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): Please no. Did you have fun though? Best night of your life? Are you in love now
> 
> _Dean | 10:49am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ dude was kind of a loser tbh
> 
> Sam | 10:50am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): Harsh. Why are you hooking up with losers? Why do you ALWAYS do this
> 
> _Dean | 10:54am (Sunday, September 19, 2019)_ : shut up dude, he was hot. Weirdly hot for an awkward loner. Gotta say I definitely got weird religious homeschooled vibes from the dude. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was chained in a basement for half his life
> 
> Sam | 10:55am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): jesus christ dean. That’s not funny. At least tell me you were safe. Tell me you didn’t go to HIS place??
> 
> _Dean | 10:57am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ Jack Daniels is a hell of a drug
> 
> Sam | 10:58am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): dude what the fuck, you know better than to behave like this, you’re not an idiot 19 year old anymore
> 
> _Dean | 10:59am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ I wasn’t hooking up with dudes when I was 19, Samuel. Let me make mistakes looool
> 
> Sam | 11:01am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): It’s not funny, Dean. Use your head
> 
> _Dean | 11:04am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ look i lived okay? Didn’t wake up in an ice tub with a kidney gone… though dude was weird enough that i’d consider that a close call
> 
> Sam | 11:04am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): ugh.
> 
> _Dean | 11:05am (Sunday, September 19, 2019):_ you love me.
> 
> Sam | 11:25am (Sunday, September 19, 2019): this is not funny. You know i worry about you already with dad and like you know. Other stuff. AND THEN you’re joking about putting yourself in really bad situations. How am i supposed to feel okay about being so far away when youre doing this kind of shit

Dean stared at the text message until the phone screen went black, throwing him into complete darkness under his bed sheets. The tone that had started out so light between them took a sharp turn south...as usual.

While all he wanted to do was sleep, Dean groaned and turned onto his side, tugging the covers further over his head so he was sealed into the darkness. His body felt weighed down with fatigue and his mind felt fuzzy, but he punched in Sam’s number anyway and held the phone to his ear with a long exhale through his nose.

“Yes?” Sam answered, clearly peeved.

Dean picked up the pieces of his mental exhaustion and crammed them together haphazardly into something that resembled enthusiasm. “Uh oh, Sammy’s pissed,” he chuckled.

“I—” Sam huffed into the phone. Dean heard his loud stove vent whirring in the background. “I’m not _pissed,_ I’m just—I’m just worried! How the heck are you so...so... _blasé_ about going home with a complete stranger from a club? Especially if you’ve never, ever met him and got creepy vibes from him?”

“Sam, you’re being a turd. I was just _joking_ , jeez. I felt safe, the dude was nice—”

“Ted Bundy was nice!”

“As usual, Sam, you’re watching too many serial killer documentaries. It’s kinda weird how obsessed you are with that crap. Why can’t you just watch _Friends_ and _The Office_ like the rest of us losers with a Netflix subscrip—”

Sam cut him off again. Pots and pans clattered. “You listen to _My Favourite Murder_ like the rest of the world, Dean. Don’t act all high and mighty.”

Dean chuckled, rubbing at his oily forehead, noticing with a surge of self-loathing that he should probably shower. Thoughts oozed around in his brain like sludge, but his voice was chipper when he said, “Yeah, you caught me. Anyway, how you doin’? How’s the firm goin’? Those lawyers still riding your—”

“I can’t believe you. No. We’re not changing the subject—” 

_Beep. Beep. Beeeeeep._ Dean could picture Sam poking aggressively at his microwave.

“—I moved out here because you _assured_ me you and Dad would be fine, but everything has gone to shit and now I can’t help but feel I made a mistake.”

“Oh my God, relax, Samantha,” Dean groaned, pressing his face into his covers. They needed to be washed. “I have one sketchy hookup and your wig is _flying.”_

“It’s not _about_ that. And _all_ of your hookups are sketchy, Dean. I know you’re reckless sometimes and stubborn as fuck, but usually you’re not a complete fucking idiot. Bathroom hookups are shady and gross, sure, but you never _go to people’s houses_. Like, where did this guy even live? What the hell makes you think you were all good just prancing into…”

Dean’s eyes shut. He let the phone slide off his face to rest in his limp hand on the mattress. Sam prattled on for a few more seconds before he said, “Hello? Hello? Did you just hang—”

“I’m here,” Dean murmured into the phone after pulling it close to his face. “I don’t need this right now, Sam.”

Sam was silent.

Dean felt the familiar burn behind his eyes that followed him around everywhere, but as suddenly as it appeared the feeling vanished, leaving him even more tired than he already was. 

“You okay, Dean? I… You know I’m just worried.” There was the noise of tinny static as Sam exhaled into the phone. Then; “Is Dad worse? Is that what’s up?”

“Called me this morning,” Dean explained quietly, his voice low. “Went on for like half an hour about how you never visit. Called you a traitor and stuff.”

“Why the fuck does he care?” Sam growled. They were launching into the same conversation they had every few months. It was like a broken record. “He was the one that told me that if I left, I wouldn’t be welcomed back. Does he not remember that? He told me I was a disappointment to Mom, to her memory. He said Mom would _hate_ me for what I did.”

That stinging behind his eyes. It was back. “Sam…”

“All I fucking did was go to law school in another state. I would’ve gone to school and come back on holidays and summers like regular kids but he made me feel like I’d killed Mom myself!”

“He was still grieving her, Sam. God, you know how he is.”

“Stupid. An _asshole_ —”

“Sam!” Dean barked, raising his voice so loud he actually startled himself a bit. “Stop it, I’m serious. I fucking _can’t_ with this right now, okay? I just can’t. I’m dealing with too much stuff, alright? I can’t deal with your fucking harping a-and...fuckin’ Dad chewing me out this morning about the store, about how he thinks selling books and games and shit is spitting in Mom’s face. I-I-I—”

The tonal shift in Sam’s voice was immediate. Gently, his younger brother said, “Dean, hey. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”

Dean _hated_ this. He hated that his brother had to be all gentle with him and shit. He missed when they could just scream at each other until someone stormed out and then came back later with pie...or salad, depending on who’d been right. 

“You okay?” Sam asked when Dean didn’t immediately answer.

Dean finally opened his eyes, though it made little difference under the covers. He stared at a callous on his thumb in the green-ish light coming from the phone pressed to his ear. 

“M’fine,” Dean muttered. “Tired. Worked all week changing all the merchandising to accommodate the new t-shirt racks and stuff. I don’t care what dad says, I think Mom would rather her store be kept open more than she’d care about if we now sell used PS4 games.”

“You _do_ care.”

“Yeah? What? Of course I care about the freakin’ family business, Sam. I really do, that’s why—”

“No, I mean you care about what Dad thinks. You still call him ‘sir’?”

 _You would know if you’d seen him at all in the last few years,_ Dean almost snapped, but he kept his mouth shut. It was like Sam couldn’t _help_ but continue to be bitter. On one hand, Dean didn’t blame him, but on the other hand he was _exhausted_ by it. Dean pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Sam. Fuckin’ let it go.”

“Fine,” Sam sighed. 

Dean turned his hand over and picked up a crumb from his lunch yesterday. He had to stop eating in bed. Rubbing it between his fingers, he asked, “Wutcha making?”

“...a casserole.”

“Precious. Is there bacon in it? Like Mom used to make, with the panko crumbles and those big hunkin’ pieces of chicken?”

“Well, there’s chicken but none of that other crap. I don’t feel like dying of a coronary at thirty-two.”

“Watch it, you punk. I’m thirty-two in like five months.”

Sam smirked. “Yeah, I know. Stop eating garbage and maybe you’ll make it there.”

“I’ll die young and hot like all the rest of the world’s rockstars,” Dean chuckled, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes against the press of his duvet over his face.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked. “It sounds quiet.”

“I’m in the living room,” Dean lied. “Just waiting for my coffee to brew.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Sam jested. “Usually before coffee it’s ‘don’t talk to me, Sam. Don’t even look at me until I’m caffeinated _.’_ So angry. Like a bear.”

“Maybe I won’t pick you up at the airport,” Dean murmured. “Maybe I’ll use next weekend to catch up on sleep. Go into full Yogi bear hibernation.”

Sam chuckled. They stayed on the phone in silence as Sam puttered around his kitchen. 

With him so far away, sometimes it was nice just to hear him live, like he was in the next room, like when they’d all lived together last. Like when Mom was alive.

“Sam?”

 _Cuh-thunk._ The microwave popped open. “Yeah?”

“That guy? He was nice. Honest.”

Sam didn’t speak at first, then he muttered, “I hope so.”

“He just seemed lonely, that’s all. A little awkward, but… Whatever, y’know?”

“You made it seem like he was this creepy bridge troll.”

“Nah, he was pretty, um… Fuck. I know you’re cool with it but it’s still weird talking to you about this.”

“Well, you can, y’know,” Sam said awkwardly. “It’s new for me, too, but we’re just...adjusting.”

‘It’. It was always ‘it’. With the exception of Charlie, none of his friends came out and said, ‘now that you’re openly gay’. Not that he had ever been anything else, but the journey had been dark. He’d never felt like he was himself; instead he was just a person wearing a straight person suit that he had to put on everyday. He played the role of a human who laughed and told jokes, who was often the life of the party, and who hit on anything with boobs. He deserved an Academy award, as far as he was concerned, because he’d convinced everyone around him, and sometimes he even pretended to convince himself of who he was (not).

A part of him wanted someone to acknowledge ‘It’, but another part of him felt like he’d scream if anyone did. Even when Charlie got a beer in him and pried a bit, kindly asking if he was seeing anyone or if he thought the guy across the restaurant was cute, he froze up. Turned out, the second part of coming out was actually _being_ gay in front of your friends and family, and not only saying the words out loud.

Maybe for others it was different, maybe it made them feel free, but Dean… He was still struggling. 

And it was one thing to say, ‘I’m gay’ to the faces of friends and family who had always known him as an overly-macho (or rather, over-compensating) womanizer. It was another thing to actually talk to them about his new life (or new _part_ of his life, whichever it was,) though it certainly felt like he wasn’t living as the same person he used to be. It was like he’d shed his fake skin, but only part-way, and getting the rest off was both thrilling and agonizing. 

“He was nice,” Dean went on quietly, forcing a normal tone past the lump in his throat. “His apartment was pretty sweet. I think he had a good job or some shit. Even had a security guard to buzz him into the building.”

“A concierge?”

“Bless you,” Dean said, the corner of his lip twitching up. He knew what a concierge was, but it was more fun to make Sam laugh.

And he did, a really nice laugh that made Dean feel infinitely better. Sam had been gone for only a few years, but it’d felt like ten.

“Did you get his number?” Sam asked hopefully. “Are you gonna see him again?”

“No,” Dean replied firmly. “Uh, no. We, um...hung out and then I left.”

“No sparks?” 

There’d been sparks; first all over the dance floor, and then later on his knees in the kitchen, even if Dean had frozen when the guy came, paralyzed with guilt that he’d done something so gay _again_ , as if he was still in hiding, still kind of ashamed of who he was, still making mistakes. 

It would take time to shake off. He just needed time. Time to realise he wasn’t doing anything wrong, or shameful, or unnatural. 

Cas. There had been no indication by the way he moved his body under strobe lights and through the curl of the smoke from the fog machine that he was going to be as awkward as he was. He was blunt and kinda too serious about everything, but despite all that, Dean found him intriguing. Also, it was rare to find someone who felt painfully genuine in a world where everyone was trying to play a character. Sure, there had been some uncomfortable silences, but there was some kind of unspoken understanding between them that they were in the same boat. More than once, Cas had hinted to having only recently come out, too. 

In a weird, weird way, it felt like a bond. 

If he was honest, Cas was outwardly awkward to the same degree Dean was internally awkward. After all, Dean had been the one to prattle on about his busted toilet for at least three entire minutes at the start there. And at the end...neither had asked for each other’s numbers, though Dean had been tempted.

Now that Sam pointed it out, Dean felt a curl of loss in his stomach.

“Okay, that’s enough feelings talk. Fuck off to go eat, I’m heading down to the store in five minutes. I’ll see you Friday, bring the family biz shirts.”

“...you want us to match, don’t you?”

“Shut up, we’re matching. Reppin’ the store.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

With that, Dean hung up. He stared at the phone over his face until the screen went black and then he turned onto his side, pulling his pillow close to his dully aching chest. With no energy to actually go to the store, knowing the staff had it covered, Dean drifted back to sleep.

***

Work functions. Castiel hated work functions.

Aside from the obvious—they were an entirely tele-commuting HR firm, so employees were spread across the lower Kansas area and getting to the functions was a bother—there was the simple fact that Castiel had to actually socialize. He had to socialize with people he otherwise would only communicate with over an occasional conference call or email, and three-quarters of the team saw each other’s faces in a webcam perhaps twice a year. It was essentially a room of complete strangers whose personalities were painted by the type of font in their email signatures, or whether they used ‘best’, ‘kind regards’, or ‘cheers’ as their exit salutation. 

Castiel didn’t trust the ones who said ‘cheers’ in their emails.

Attendance at these ‘employee engagement’ events was mandatory, despite the otherwise encouraging and lighthearted name for them. The tone Castiel got from Zachariah’s emails were “enjoy the engagement or enjoy a write-up”. But there was one upside to these events other than free food and the travel expense reimbursement, and that upside was Uriel.

Uriel was the funniest member of their team. He and Castiel were the longest-standing employees in the company other than Zachariah, and they had started on the same day, attending orientation with about four other people who just hadn’t made it. While Castiel didn’t bond with many people, he didn’t really have a choice with Uriel. Uriel was the type of guy that forced his friendship on everyone, and of course, they’d both had no choice but to bond over their exceptionally religious names. 

Uriel had a big white smile, a booming laugh, and a sense of humour that made everyone feel like they were in on the joke, including Castiel, who usually wasn’t in on any jokes. Funnily enough, Uriel was in charge delivering terminations mostly, because he was kind in an upbeat sort of way. The wrongful dismissal lawsuits decreased when he took the responsibility from Zachariah, who had the tact of a cobra.

Most importantly, at least to Castiel, Uriel made up the very, very small group of people Castiel considered friends. They actually spoke outside of work. More than once Uriel had invited him to his amateur comedy nights, doing a lot of the legwork to keep their small friendship going when Castiel wasn’t good at keeping in touch outside of their morning team calls. Of course, Castiel never went to the shows, but Uriel was never shy about using company time to voice call him and practice a set on him. 

If Zachariah knew about the raunchy jokes Uriel told Castiel during the workday, they’d both be fired. Castiel’s favorite one was about the goat blowjob.

“Oh my God,” Uriel laughed, approaching Castiel where he was perched on the sidelines of the barbeque, keeping company to the cooler of non-alcoholic punch. “He liiiives. Castiel in the flesh. Didn’t think you were gonna make it!”

Castiel shook hands with his friend, though it was less of a handshake and more of a flimsy slap with a lingering grasp. “I wanted to avoid being fired.”

Uriel raised his brows and began piling potato chips generously onto a bright orange paper plate with the company logo on it. He had been texting Castiel all week to express his excitement about the free food. “Well,” he said, his voice smooth like red velvet, “ain’t that the truth, Grace. How was the drive in?”

“Fine,” Castiel murmured into his red Dixie cup, watching their Health and Safety Coordinator Hester flirt shamelessly with Zachairah, who drank it up like a dried-up leech. “I cannot stress how irritating it was to drive across town on a Thursday evening after a nine-hour work day. Especially after Zachariah berated me for entirely too long because I failed to get a report to him. A report that I was unaware I was even supposed to generate.”

“Prick,” Uriel snorted, throwing a mouthful of barbeque chips into his mouth and crunching loudly. “Would it’ve killed the motherfucker to give us a Friday off to come here?”

“I think he was hoping it would dissuade us from drinking and calling in sick tomorrow,” Castiel explained with a sigh, leaning his hip on the table, the red and white checkered plastic fluttering in the soft breeze.

“Drinking?” Uriel huffed, glancing behind his back at the cooler of punch. “Drinking what? This watered down tropical punch juice his butler got on sale? The _only_ thing that could make it even remotely good was a hearty helping of tequila, so he fucked up there.”

“Funny,” Castiel said dryly, still watching Hester rub her hands down the side of Zachariah’s arm and throw her wavy blonde hair over her shoulder. “For a dry gathering, Hester is rather...loose.”

“Oh,” Uriel said, his chin tucked to his chest as he laughed under his breath. “She and I shotgunned a few beers on the side of the house before we showed up.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped and he stared at his friend who laughed still, cracked up by his own misbehaviour. “You...brought alcohol?”

“Feelin’ those frat boy vibes, you know? Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta to be an ‘engaged employee’,” Uriel chuckled. But when Castiel’s eyes didn’t un-widen, he added, smacking Castiel in the arm. “Unclench, Castiel. I ain’t breakin’ any policies when I’m not being paid.”

In a rushed whisper, Castiel leaned in and warned, “It’s in the hand book, Uriel! We’re acting as company representatives at all times, including off-site and—”

“You want a beer?” Uriel asked, winking. “You want some, don’t you?”

 _Yes._ “No,” Castiel muttered, drinking from his cup again and resenting the watery fruit drink he was forced to imbibe. “I just can’t believe you.”

“Hester is having a great time. I’m helping.”

“You’re going to get yourselves fired.”

“Kinda looks like Hester is about to get a promotion, if you ask me,” Uriel muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 

Castiel stared at his friend, shaking his head. “You’re joking.”

Uriel stared at Zachariah and Hester, then glanced at Castiel and grinned. “I’m joking.”

“Of course you are,” Castiel grumbled, accepting some chips as Uriel held out his plate with a wiggle. 

“Speaking of joking,” Uriel said, sounding like he’d thought of something hilarious, his voice dripping with amusement, “boss man didn’t notice my email signature yet.”

A mouthful of punch poured back into the cup from Castiel’s mouth and he coughed, wiping at his mouth with his wrist, panicking for a moment when it got onto his watch. “You’re joking,” he breathed.

“This time,” Uriel laughed, his shoulders shaking, “I am not.”

“How could he not notice that you finished each email with ‘Love, Chuckles’?”

“I’m _telling you_ ,” Uriel said, poking Castiel in the arm, his eyes wide. “He does _not_ read my emails. He _doesn’t._ I knew it! I told you. Ever since I asked for a promotion last week, he won’t open anything I send.”

Castiel surveyed him seriously, asking lowly, “Are you requesting read receipts?”

Uriel rolled his eyes, pursing his lips and returning his gaze to their company function. “Read receipts. Fuckin’ read receipts. Come on, Castiel. When was the last time you clicked ‘yes’ on a read receipt? Everyone knows it’s a passive aggressive way to say ‘you can’t be trusted to do shit without a prompt’. You can run but you can’t hide, bitches.”

“I always accept read receipts,” Castiel muttered indignantly, wincing as Rachel, their Payroll Coordinator, nailed one of the sales guys in the back of the head with a badminton birdie.

“You would,” Uriel grunted, sighing. “You gotta live a little, Castiel. Shotgun a beer in your thirties, sleep with your boss—” Uriel waved a hand through the air. “—deny a read receipt. Have a little _fun_. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ like pretending you haven’t read an email.”

“I have _fun_ ,” Castiel countered, shuffling on his feet uncomfortably. 

“Oh yeah?” Uriel challenged, raising his brows. “Do you use the real cheese instead of the powdery stuff on mac-and-cheese sometimes? Rebel.”

Rebel. That was the second time someone had called him that this week… Dean’s grinning face flashed behind Castiel’s lids.

“I do things for fun,” Castiel insisted, a scowl on his face. “I do.”

“Like what?”

“I...go out.” Castiel recalled dancing with Dean at the nightclub and looking down at his face between his legs in the kitchen. “I, um, know people.”

“Well, case closed,” Uriel said with a grin. “He ‘knows people.’ Well, listen, here’s an idea—”

Momentarily distracted by Ishim’s—the Head of Marketing—growl of a laugh as he landed three bean bags into some stupid slanted wooden contraption with a hole in it, Castiel glanced back at Uriel.

His friend’s eye twinkled gleefully like it did when he was scheming. “My cousin Raphi and his wife were supposed to come with me to a music festival this weekend, but cancelled about two hours ago. Not that I’m mad about it; he’s got no sense of humour and is the type of brother who always accepts read receipts.”

“ _I_ always accept read receipts,” Castiel murmured, about to take another drink of the sugar water when he realised the cup was empty. His hand dropped to his side with a sigh, the cup crunching in his grip.

“Yeah, but I actually like you,” Uriel pointed out. “I only hang out with Raph ‘cause my old lady gets on me if I don’t.” Uriel made air quotes with one hand and muttered, “‘ _He’s your cousin, son, you gotta love him even though he’s just a robot with skin stretched over the hardware, blah blah blah’.”_

Castiel smiled, his head dropping to his chest and shaking from side-to-side.

Uriel shook the plate of chips in front of his face. “What’d you say, friend? Come with me. You _love_ music, and rumour has it Destiny’s Child is going to be there for a reunion show. Don't even try to play that you don’t love Destiny’s Child; remember that time you left your mic on and we all heard you singin’ along to _‘Say My Name’_?”

“Uriel, _please._ You promised you wouldn’t bring that up aga—”

“It’ll be fuuun,” he said, wiggling his big hips as if that made the offer inciting. With a grin on his face, Uriel sang in his deep, smooth tones, “ _Say my naaame, say my naaame. You actin’ kinda shady, ain’t callin’ me baby, better say my naaa—”_

“It’s supposed to be eighty degrees this weekend,” Castiel replied immediately, raising his head only to tilt it and narrowing his eyes at his friend. He was turning beet red as Uriel continued to sing under his breath. “Standing in a crowd of thousands of people, most of which are likely much younger than me, and leaking my bodyweight in sweat is not my idea of fun.”

Uriel stared at him, his face dropped, looking unimpressed as he began to shake his head. “What would you be doin’ otherwise? Watching your weird alcoholic dog chase his tail for two days straight, and maybe jerk off to your pristine Outlook productivity tracker when you got time?”

Castiel choked on nothing and thumped himself on the chest, aghast. “I-I… I have fun, Uriel! And…I can’t. My cousin Hannah is in town. I’m supposed to show her around the city and—”

“Lawrence is boring as balls, Castiel. I have two tickets, so fuck it, she can come, too. I’ll email them to you tonight.” With a chuckle, Uriel leaned past Castiel and threw his paper plate in the garbage, rubbing his hands together to rid them of crumbs. “Now, step aside and watch me beat all these sunburnt white people at badminton.”

And he did. Castiel watched it happen with his mouth hung open, unsure what the heck he had just been roped into and wondering what the heck he could even wear to a music festival that didn’t have mac-and-cheese dust on it somewhere.

***

“You’re going to a _what_?”

Castiel shifted his phone from one ear to the other as his neck cramped. “A music festival, Naomi.”

Naomi, his closest friend since college, scoffed into the phone, her tone judgemental. “You’re thirty-four years old, what exactly is there at a music festival that would be of interest to you other than millennials on acid?”

Castiel paused, ceasing the scrubbing of his carpet, staring down at the sudsy patch where Jack had thrown up something that looked suspiciously like nougat and toilet paper. “I have no interest in millennials on acid.”

“Right, so what exactly are you doing with your life?” Naomi snapped. 

“Uriel _invited_ me, Naomi. I...I’m trying to be more social. You always berate me for not being social—”

“Yes, well, I meant you should do adult activities, like leaving your house occasionally or getting a haircut without having to build yourself up to it. I did _not_ mean putting on a flower crown and a crop top to commune with other idiots in scalding Kansas heat.”

He loved her. He really did. When everyone else had shunned him for his social awkwardness, Naomi had gravitated towards him, an outsider herself. Other people thought she was abrasive, and called her other...unsavoury names behind her back—and to her face—that he wasn’t vile enough to repeat, even in his head. She was certainly the more overpowering of the two of them. But despite her prickliness, she called to check in on him often and made sure he saw humanity once in a while, even if it meant dragging him to dinners and the occasional breakfast when she wasn’t punching and slicing her way up the corporate ladder.

“Hannah is coming this weekend,” Castiel sighed, spritzing the carpet with more cleaner while also shoving Jack aside as the puppy tried to snap at the mist. “She’s got a friend’s wedding in town next weekend and decided to come early to spend time with me.”

“Spend time with you?” Naomi asked, sounding puzzled. “Why?”

Castiel pulled the phone from his ear to roll his eyes, momentarily forgetting she couldn’t see him. Sure, he loved her but he certainly understood why Naomi didn’t have many friends either.

“Because,” he stressed, sliding the phone back between his shoulder and ear, “she’s...family. Though I imagine she has some skewed memory of how close we used to be before college. The memories I have of her involve wordlessly watching her play the Sims over her shoulder while our mothers drank themselves into hysterical screaming fights.”

“So, she’s a stranger,” Naomi retorted bluntly. “You’ll be boarding a stranger for more than a week, essentially. Where is she even going to sleep? In Jack’s bed?”

Jack’s ears perked up at his name, his mouth opening for his tongue to droop out as he panted excitedly. Castiel was relieved, because that meant he would stop trying to eat the vomit-y paper towel for _two damn seconds._

“You _know_ I have a spare bedroom,” Castiel said slowly. “You helped me move in…”

“Oh,” Naomi said dryly. Over the phone, he heard the rapid click-click-clack-ing of her fingers flying across her noisy keyboard. “You mean to say you’re going to let her sleep in that dusty, neglected, disgusting little room you have filled with boxes of books and hobbies you’ve abandoned?”

“Okay, good talking to you, Naomi. I’m going to go.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic. Fine, I’ll go with you to the music festival.”

Castiel stared at Jack, who stared back. Blinking slowly, he murmured, “I didn’t...invite you. And...you said...millenials and acid…”

“Well, I’ve got to witness this, don’t I?” Naomi said with a cool little laugh. “You, in a crowd of people who are going to want to drunkenly slur words at you in the name of free love and all that nonsense. They’re going to try touching you and it’ll be crowded and too loud—”

“You saw the list of performing artists, didn’t you?” Castiel said suddenly, realising she’d probably looked it up. The keyboard in the background made sense now, especially after she’d called him initially claiming to be ‘bored watching reality TV and cringing at the scum of humanity’. 

“Where you’d conjure such a stupid notion—” she started.

Recalling the poster on the other side of the tickets Uriel sent, Castiel said bluntly, “You saw that Jewel is on the listings, didn’t you? That’s why you want to come.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Naomi, do not lie to me,” Castiel said with a small smile spreading over his lips. “You’re not usually a liar.”

“I work in advertising, Castiel,” Naomi said promptly. “All I do is lie.”

Jack whined and flipped onto his back, demanding belly rubs. Castiel sat back on his heels and sighed, putting aside the spray bottle he’d clenched in his hand. Being stuck with Naomi and Hannah for an entire weekend was going to be interesting; Hannah, if he remembered correctly, was soft spoken and cheery, while Naomi was...the human equivalent of sandpaper.

And if Naomi didn’t kill Hannah by Sunday night, then she’d kill Uriel, who loved nothing more than to ruthlessly mock anyone who rubbed him the wrong way.

“Have you bought a ticket already?” Castiel muttered flatly.

There was a buzz and a whir on the other end of the phone.

“I’m printing mine out right now,” Naomi declared, sounding pleased with herself. “What should I wear?”

This took a sharp turn from mocking flower crowns to picking outfits. Castiel wished to hang up, since this was about where the friendship had limits.

“I don’t know,” Castiel groaned, looking down at himself, accepting that with the exception of his work suit, blue tie, and trenchcoat, his fashion sense would never evolve past t-shirts and jeans. “Whatever you already own? I would not suggest wearing your grey work suit.”

“You are useless.”

Staring down at the puppy vomit stain that would likely never come out, Castiel murmured, “Yes, I’ve been told.”

Naomi sighed loudly into the phone and he heard her chair creak as she stood up. “I’m sure I can find something needlessly revealing and tacky. Pick me up at 8am on Saturday.”

Before he could protest, Naomi hung up, leaving him with Jack—who’d reignited his interest in gross paper towel—and a feeling in his stomach of complete and utter dread.

Uriel owed him _big time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other than Cas, Uriel is my fave angel. Funniest angel in the garrison, amirite?
> 
> Leave me a comment to lemme know what you thought of this chapter! What was your favourite bit?


	3. The Festival: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to sobsicles and kradarua for betaing this chapter! 
> 
> This was originally one giant chapter, so I split it into two. The next part comes out later this week. :D
> 
> Enjoy the music the boys listen to this chapter: [Don't Speak - No Doubt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TR3Vdo5etCQ), [I Got A Man - Positive K](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvYIpa1Ulvw), [The Pretender- Foo Fighters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBjQ9tuuTJQ), and [Less Than - Nine Inch Nails](https://youtu.be/gDV-dOvqKzQ).

“Jewel? Alanis Morrisette? Garbage? Natalia Imbriglia?” Naomi scoffed, turning the festival map over, her eyes running down the list of performing artists. “I thought Alanis Morrisette was dead. Also, who designed the promotional material for this? It looks like someone let their tag artist nephew loose on MS Paint.”

Castiel tipped his head back to the hot Kansas sky and squeezed his eyes shut while Uriel chuckled under his breath beside him. Hannah and Naomi walked ahead of them, pouring over the map. Or rather, Naomi tried to read the map while Hannah peered over her shoulder, not getting the hint when Naomi leaned away.

“It’s a retro music festival,” Uriel called forward, smirking. “Half of these performers were assumed to be dead at least a few times in the last decade.”

“Ooh,” Hannah said happily, looking over her shoulder at Castiel. “Cuz, look! Daft Punk! Can we go see Daft Punk? We _must_ go see Daft Punk.”

Castiel was about to answer, but Uriel barked a laugh, his deep voice booming. “As long as they’re not on at the same time as Destiny’s Child. Otherwise, you’re walking your ass back to Lawrence.”

Naomi’s ponytail flopped through the air as she peered over her shoulder with a confused scowl, her brows furrowing behind her aviators. “Destiny’s Child? Didn’t one of them die?”

Castiel scowled at her. “Moving forward, assume that if they’re performing this weekend, no one is dead.”

He’d been in a hot car with the three of them, listening to Naomi make passive aggressive comments about the length of Hannah’s shorts and having to sit quietly while Uriel showed off his ability to recite every line of Positive K’s _‘I Got A Man’_ over and over. It’d been a long car ride; even Castiel’s patience had limits.

“Well,” Naomi huffed, “now I understand why all the attendees around here appear to be of a reasonable age. None of these bands have been popular since 2001. I imagine they need the money.”

Castiel had the overwhelming urge to extend his foot forward and kick Naomi in the back of her bare knee, but was saved from his own thoughts when Uriel leaned down to murmur in his ear, “Do you think this Naomi lady will like the Ja Rule show?”

“Absolutely not,” Castiel rumbled back, barely moving his lips. “She’ll make up any excuse to miss that one.”

“Good,” Uriel said promptly, standing up straight, tugging his t-shirt down over his stomach with a scowl. “We’re going to that one, then.”

While Hannah blathered on about how excited she was to see TLC—she had been too young to see them when they were at the height of their popularity—the group moved through the crowd. The day was unendingly hot and the festival took place in the middle of a series of fields, each with huge professional stages set up and decked with flashing lights, decorative sets, and presumably pyrotechnics. 

Paths worn down through the grass by thousands of footsteps wound around each area, splitting the crowds standing up close to the stages from those seated further back on blankets. They walked past merchants selling beaded bracelets, books, and band shirts, and tents where people did crafts like pottery or drank beer behind barriers. Castiel’s anxious heart thrilled as he spotted a misting tent where patrons stood in the shade and cooled off from the heat, their faces turned up to the cool spray of water. He knew he’d be walking through one of those at some point when the crowds and heat got to him.

He wasn’t sure how many stages there were, but the park was split into genres; from what he had seen so far, there were stages for hip-hop, rock, pop, country, dance, and electronica, at least. Likely there were more, but Castiel had a highlighted list of acts in his back pocket that he wanted to see—he required some semblance of structure in the otherwise chaotic environment.

Between dancing as a hobby and working from home, music was an integral part of his life. His favourite musicians had remained by his side through orphanages, foster homes, and finally the several years he’d lived with his adopted mother. So many people had let him down in life, but the songs that brought him reprieve never did. Whether anyone wanted to come with him or not, he would be seeing Destiny’s Child, Missy Elliot, and Nine Inch Nails if it was the last thing he’d ever do. If the shows were on schedule, he might even be able to catch a bit of Garbage if Hannah let him escape from Daft Punk midway through.

After his night with Dean, he had an extra soft spot for the band Garbage. It’d taken days to get _#1 Crush_ out of his head, and to forget the feeling of his anxiety draining away as Dean had pulled him up from the floor and kissed him even when his lips were still swollen and wet and used.

The small smile that had been threatening to curl on his lips as he’d peered around the festival faded as he recalled Dean’s retreating back and the memory of the door closing behind him. He’d been too nervous to ask for his phone number…but Dean also hadn’t asked for his. 

“Don’t look so bummed, angel man, Beyonce and Co. isn’t on until later,” Uriel teased, smacking Castiel in the arm with his wallet. Pointing at a large crowd—or was it a long line—Uriel said, “Buy you a beer? Manson is on in twenty minutes and I need more alcohol in me to put up with your mean friend’s bitching.”

“Manson?” Castiel asked with a twist of his mouth, his brow furrowed. “I had not pegged you as… Aren’t you very religious?”

Uriel rolled his eyes, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders to navigate him towards the line when he nearly passed it. “Only if you ask my father. And besides, it’s not Manson I care about, it’s Rob Zombie who follows, but hey, watching that drunk old guy roll around in eyeliner first is pure comedy, and bitch, you know how I love t’laugh.”

“Easy, Chuckles,” Castiel warned, but he smiled as Uriel clapped him on the shoulder and called out to the girls, who had almost wandered off and seemed unaware they’d made a pit stop.

While he wasn’t great with crowds, Castiel stood in line with Uriel and felt a spike of warmth unrelated to the heat as Uriel rested his elbow on his shoulder. They’d worked together for years, and sure, they were friends, but they never hung out like this. Like friend-friends. With a smile on his face, he glanced over at his...friend-friend, who was muttering the lyrics to ' _I Got A Man’_ under his breath.

Castiel glanced down and chuckled to himself, noticing Uriel’s shirt that said; _‘Hail Satan!’_

“So I shouldn’t tell your father about your Lucifer shirt?”

“Go ahead,” Uriel snorted, squinting at the far-off drink menu. “He left years ago without a word to anyone. Still out for cigarettes, I guess. When you let him know about my t-shirt, let him know I’m looking for him.”

The warmth in Castiel’s chest chilled quickly and even under the blaring sun, his fingers were cold with embarrassment. Still, after a few awkward moments, unsure what to say, Castiel blurted out in a stammer, “I-I’m sorry. My parents are dead, so…I understand.”

Uriel didn’t say anything, but after a bit of silence where he continued to read the drink menu and Castiel stared hard at the back of the Katy Perry t-shirt donned by the person in front of him, Uriel slid his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

***

With two beers buzzing in his stomach, courtesy of Uriel’s generosity and insistence that they ‘double fist’ their drinks, Castiel almost forgot about the crowds around him, the anxiety in his chest at a minimum as he swayed to Gwen Stefani and No Doubt playing _‘Don’t Speak’._ He watched the blonde pop star lean on the mic, singing her heart out, her bright red lips visible despite their sub-par view from the field where they were seated on their butts in the grass, uncaring about grass stains. Well, except for Naomi, who sat on her jean jacket and grumbled complaints about how civilized folk shouldn’t be sitting on the ground, not for the price of the entry tickets anyway.

Hannah sang softly under her breath, leaning back on her hands, and Castiel could swear he saw hearts in her eyes.

“The Spice Girls are performing?” Naomi said in confusion, making a high pitched noise of alarm in her throat as she stared through narrowed eyes at the schedule for the day. “How?”

“None of them are dead,” Castiel said immediately, glancing from No Doubt to squint at his friend.

“There’s only four of them performing,” Hannah said matter of factly, nodding her head and smiling, proud of herself. “Scary Spice is missing,”

Uriel grinned—a bad sign, likely an indication that an inappropriate joke was brewing in his brain. “No worries, Naomi can replace her.”

While he dissolved into pleased rumbling chuckles and Hannah squealed in gleeful shock, Naomi narrowed her eyes into slits and Castiel made an abrupt cutting motion at his throat at Uriel, trying to convey _“Shut up, Uriel, you’re about to die!”_

Sensing that Uriel was about to get Naomi’s keys shoved through his eye, Hannah put her hand on Naomi’s arm and offered kindly, “If you’d like to see them, I’ll go with you.”

Castiel watched the gears turn in Naomi’s head and he knew the idea of spending time one-on-one with Hannah, who was bright and bubbly and talked her way through any silence, was her idea of a nightmare. But...he also knew Naomi had been a young pre-teen when the Spice Girls had been at the peak of their fame—she’d be hard-pressed to turn down the offer.

“That’s...acceptable,” Naomi murmured, folding the schedule into a neat square and tucking it into her small side-purse. “They’re on in forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, good,” Hannah said, getting to her feet and brushing off the butt of her jean shorts. “Let’s get a move on, then. I’d like a drink and a decent view. Cuz, I’ll be back in time for the other shows after. Get good seats and text me where you are!”

Naomi’s mouth opened and closed and Castiel saw the slight flash of panic behind her eyes, waiting to be saved, but Castiel raised his hand in an awkward wave and Uriel saluted her, grinning.

Once they were both up and out of earshot, Uriel elbowed Castiel and chuckled. “Home free, Castiel. You want to see if we can catch half of the Foo Fighters? I saw that list in the car, the one you shoved in the cup holder. They were on there, right? Highlighted like a college textbook. Nerd.”

“ _What?”_ Frantic, Castiel fumbled for his back pocket, yanking his list out and opening the highlighted schedule, his eyes scanning it in a panic. “I thought they were tomorrow—oh _no.”_

“No,” Uriel snorted. “They’re today, and Nine Inch Nails is right after. Come on, the rock stage is only ten minutes away if we get crackin’ now.”

In less than ten minutes, they were weaving through people sitting on the ground and through the standing crowd. 

With a decent view of Dave Groll growling along to ‘ _The Pretender’,_ they stood side-by-side, hands in their pockets, listening contentedly. Due to their late arrival, they only caught about four songs, but Castiel knew the words to each one and quickly felt the wave of panic fade away—his body naturally went into overdrive whenever he had to rush to anything he was late for.

When the Foo Fighters thanked the audience with confetti flying down from the stage and wafting over the crowd, Castiel stood and people-watched as festival goers filtered away, likely off to catch some other act, while others made their way from other stages to get a seat on the grass. Nine Inch Nails was due on stage soon and as the bands changed over, Uriel took a call from his girlfriend, assuring her that he wasn’t dead yet, and that no, he wouldn’t be sleeping in a tent like a twenty year old at Coachella. Most other festival goers had pitched tents in the allotted field and in the surrounding forest, but Naomi had insisted that they get a hotel nearby. She preferred a bed and a shower over “catching fleas from local wildlife and hippies”. 

In the mid-afternoon, the sun was right above their heads and Castiel was feeling the beginnings of anxiety creeping in. It was an unfortunate byproduct of always being inside; any threat to his comfort was unsettling. But Uriel was making ‘tenting’ jokes and the lights flared on stage soon after, so Castiel forced himself to breathe and push the hair back from his forehead. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. It was Naomi.

> Naomi | 2:46 (September 26th, 2019): Where are you? My life feels sufficiently Spiced up. Also, if you ever leave me alone with your cousin again, I will kill you slowly and painfully. She has the demeanor of a dainty butterfly with the energy of a chihuahua on acid. 
> 
> Castiel | 2:46 (September 26th, 2019): Rock stage. Nine inch nails is on
> 
> Naomi | 2:47 (September 26th, 2019): Oh, lovely. Nine entire inches of nails right into my brain. 
> 
> Castiel | 2:47 (September 26th, 2019): Trent Reznor cut his hair.
> 
> Naomi | 2:47 (September 26th, 2019): Say no more, I shall come to bear witness. Praise be to his biceps.

Vicious and unpleasant as she could be at times, Castiel knew how to appeal to his best friend. 

After putting his phone back into his pocket, any attempts to calmly breathe through the discomfort of overheating all went out the window when a small group of people walked past them, a flash of fiery red hair getting his attention. With his arm around a shorter girl who was wearing flashing cat ears and a hot orange Star-Wars t-shirt, Dean— _Are-You-Employed-Dean_ —walked right by him. 

The crooked, gleaming smile couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else’s as he laughed in response to something a very tall, long-haired companion of his said.

Castiel’s entire body broke out into further sweats; he scrubbed his fingers through his hair, unsure what else to do. _Do I say hello? Normal people say hello. They talk._

But Dean hadn't asked for his number. 

What if Castiel said hello and Dean ignored him, embarrassed to be talking to him, to be seen interacting with someone so awkward? What if he _did_ reply and the words were disinterested or mean? Castiel would be humiliated. He’d have to go home. He’d have to take refuge in his condo and never come out again unless Jack required dog food, but even then, that’s what delivery services were for.

He could just see Dean’s face twist in dislike and hear his voice say snidely; “ _Dude, don’t talk to me in public. I can’t explain you to people. What we did? It sucked. It was wrong. It was disgusting. God, you are such a loser. Fuck off and don’t talk to me.”_

Trent Reznor spoke into the mic and the crowd erupted into shrieks. Dean settled about fifteen feet away beside the tall guy, with his arm around the red-head’s shoulders—did he have a _girlfriend?_ It would explain so much—and his back to Castiel. The three of them cheered as the beginning notes of ‘ _Closer’_ echoed through the air, and Castiel leaned over, his hands on his knees, breathing through his mouth.

Beside him , he heard Uriel’s smooth rumble. “You okay?”

“It’s just hot,” Castiel growled through his teeth. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

“We can leave,” Uriel began. Castiel could practically hear the frown in his voice. “Get you some wat—”

“No!” Castiel said immediately, lifting himself into a standing position and wiping his damp top lip with the back of his wrist. “No...I’ll be fine. Just… Please, ignore me.”

On most days, Uriel was an easy-natured, good-humoured man, but for the next two songs, Castiel felt the lightheartedness seep from his friend’s stance and felt his eyes dart over occasionally, watching him. His rounded shoulders were tight, looking ready to catch Castiel if he keeled over.

Castiel wanted to watch the show, to forget about Dean. He’d always wanted to see Nine Inch Nails live, for Reznor had a commanding stage presence and possibly sounded even better in person than on his records, but Dean was _right there_ after Castiel had been convinced he’d never see him again. 

And maybe if they’d finished the night of exchanging fellatio by exchanging numbers too, Castiel may not have felt so panicked, but the fact of the matter was they hadn’t. Castiel had felt a genuine connection to this guy, a strange sense of camaraderie and bonding over their shared experiences, even if they were only mentioned briefly or implied through diverted eyes and murmured words… But Dean hadn’t wanted his number, hadn’t wanted to keep in touch, hadn’t wanted a redux. Dean had decided Castiel hadn’t earned a second chance.

Under the hot Kansas sun, Castiel felt like he was melting, drowning in hot humiliation.

“Okay, _what_?” Uriel demanded, snapping his fingers in front of Castiel’s gaze, causing him to jump. “Listen, you’re gonna tell me what’s making you chew those lips raw or I’m callin’ an EMT, you hear? I’m not playin’. I ain‘t scared of making a scene—”

And to Castiel’s horror, Uriel was glancing from him to Dean, following a gaze Castiel must’ve established with a laser focus. “That guy a problem? Is that your ex-girlfriend or something?”

Castiel raised a hand and wiped at his mouth with his palm, a vain gesture, since his hands were damper than his mouth which—as Uriel had accurately noticed—he was chewing at and licking nervously. 

“No, I…” It occurred to him that he’d never had a talk with Uriel about who he was, about _what_ he was. But…

Well, he was Uriel’s ride home; if he was about to find out Uriel was a homophobe, might as well do it when Naomi was on her way back to them and could slice him up with her razor sharp tongue if need be.

“Not my ex-girlfriend, no,” Castiel croaked, feeling choked with terror. His hands slid into his pockets and he split his gaze between Dean and Uriel, bracing himself for rejection. “I...have a history with that man. An… An intimate history. B-Brief, of course. Just one night, but—”

There. He’d done it. He’d come out to his coworker of ten years, to a guy he had only _just_ begun to call a friend-friend outside of work in recent years. 

“Oh.” Uriel’s eyebrows went up and he glanced over at Dean, staring with his mouth open. 

“Yes,” was all Castiel could breathe, though he was easily drowned out by Reznor growling into the mic. He swallowed the urge to vomit and returned his gaze to the stage, trying to focus on the act, on remembering the words to ‘ _Less Than’_ even though he knew he could recite every lyric if his brain wasn’t currently fried. Maybe he was suffering from heat stroke.

To his surprise, Uriel smacked him on the arm and his white teeth split his dark brown lips brightly as his twinkling brown eyes. “Damn, Castiel. Chad Michael Murray cut himself a slice of angel food _cake_ , did he?"

Castiel’s jaw dropped and he stared as Uriel's shoulders shook and his chin dropped to his chest as he continued to laugh. “Wh… _What_ is so funny?”

Instead of replying, Uriel just reached up and clapped Castiel on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze, his face still beaming. “Go on. I’ll hold your halo—go talk to the man.”

“ _No_ , Uriel!” Castiel growled as Uriel used his ‘friendly’ grasp on Castiel’s shoulder to all but shove him forward. He couldn’t believe he’d been scared of Uriel discriminating against him, when what he should’ve been scared of was Uriel being _too_ supportive. “Uriel, _stop,_ I—This is _not_ funny. Not everything is a joke—”

“Aw, shit,” Uriel wheezed, looking all too pleased with himself. “He’s _shy._ Come now, Grace, what’s his name? I’ll call him over for you—It’s Chad, ain’t it? Or Mark. Maybe it’s _Mark. OH._ Hah. Ryan. He’s a Ryan _._ ”

Okay, heat and stress and now complete and utter panic that Uriel might actually get Dean’s attention was making Castiel legitimately feel like he could pass out. His shoulders tightened and his fists curled at his sides, the muscles in his arms taut. “Uriel, _please_.”

“CASTIEL!” 

Uriel’s grin dropped off his face and Castiel’s stomach plummeted somewhere down near his ankles as Hannah called out to them from the nearby path, waving and smiling. It seemed even Uriel had been joking about getting Dean’s attention, because when Hannah called his name out again, Uriel’s hand waved through the air in the universal gesture of _“PIPE DOWN, LADY!”_

“Cuz,” Hannah said, quieter, her chest heaving under her bright blue TLC t-shirt, sweat shining over her smiling lips. “Cuz, glad we found you. This field is _huge—”_

But Castiel stopped listening to her, his hearing buzzing, because over her shoulder Dean had turned around at the exclamation of Castiel’s very unique name. Green eyes locked with blue and dirty blond lashes widened—dirty blonde lashes that Castiel remembered staring through as Dean looked up at him from his knees on the kitchen floor. They stared at each other and it occurred to Castiel that he should smile or wave or do anything at all other than look on in terror, but—

“What’s wrong with you?” Naomi snapped, jerking him out of the quicksand that was his anxiety. He broke his stare with Dean and blinked himself back into the present moment, turning his chin to survey Naomi. 

“What?” he asked, giving his head a shake.

Her well-groomed brows knit together. “You don't look well. You're all red and sweaty and your lips are white.”

“It’s eighty degrees, give the man a break,” Uriel said flatly, scowling. “You’re looking a bit rosy yourself, Princess Peach.”

Naomi’s head reeled back and even behind her copper tinted sunglasses, Castiel could see her eyes flash like a viper about to strike. “Princess Peach? I beg your pardon—”

He knew Uriel was trying to divert attention away from him, but if Castiel had to put up with the blare of Nine Inch Nails vibrating through his chest, the searing, unforgiving heat of the sun, _and_ Dean’s presences rippling like a blastwave, he was going to blow a gasket if he also had to tolerate Naomi and Uriel’s snapping and snarling.

“It’s just the heat, Naomi. I’ll be fine,” Castiel insisted in a rumble.

She frowned, but thankfully did not continue to engage with Uriel, who was muttering under his breath while returning his gaze to the show. Castiel did notice her features soften and saw her reach down to her side, tugging out a water bottle with droplets of condensation all down the plastic. 

“Have this,” she insisted.

Accepting it, Castiel smiled tightly and did drink from the bottle, but then screwed it closed tightly and pressed it under his neck. He tried to focus on the show, but he was very, very… _very_ aware of a sandy head of damp hair turning to glance at him every once in a while.

Well, two heads of sandy hair. He felt Naomi’s silvery eyes glance out of the side of her aviators, keeping an eye on him. 

Between songs, as Reznor said something or other to the crowd that earned him a cheer—Castiel’s ears felt like they were buzzing, he had no clue what was being said—Naomi nudged his hip with her bag and asked, “Let’s go. I saw a misting tent not too far from here.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what was wrong with him. Seeing Dean and reliving the humiliation of the whole phone numbers debacle was anxiety inducing, but so was the idea of leaving and not getting a chance to talk to him again. Not that he had any plans...or enough courage to do so. But the fear of loss, fear of another opportunity gone down the drain…

“No, I want to stay,” Castiel replied firmly, sounding more confident than he felt. He switched the cold, wet bottle from one side of his neck to the other. 

“I could use a drink,” Naomi pressed on, scowling up at the band. “And my intrigue in Reznor’s biceps has waned. Come with me.”

“Mine hasn’t. Go get a drink if you want one so badly,” Castiel grunted, his eyes nearly sliding closed from the tiny modicum of relief the cool bottle was giving him. 

He was sure Naomi was glaring or baring her teeth at him in anger, but Castiel was yet again aware that Dean was looking at him. Daring a glance, he met his gaze and saw that Dean looked a bit panicked himself, glancing between his brother and what was potentially his girlfriend under his arm. 

Of course he had a girlfriend. Of _course_ he did. It hadn’t been lost on Castiel how shell-shocked the man had been after sucking him off. Castiel lost himself in the memory, putting himself in Dean’s shoes, feeling the weight of his adulterous behaviour, of his shame and guilt…

Oh… Oh _no._

Dean was coming over. 

His heart rate picking up, Castiel dropped his hand to his side, the water bottle crunching and crackling in his hand as he squeezed it.

As helpful as ever, Uriel leaned to the side a bit and rumbled, “Fuckboy, incoming.”

How could Dean look so casual in such a terrifying situation? One hand in the pocket of loose ripped jeans, his Iron Maiden t-shirt draping off his softly muscled shoulders, and his hair dark with sweat, and yet looking so calm… Castiel was annoyed at the easy, crooked smile on Dean’s face and the loose wave he made with his hand in greeting. Dean was sunburnt over his nose and the tops of his forearms, and his _freckles, oh_ —

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greeted cheerily, almost teasingly. “You thought you were gonna get away without saying hi?”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied back flatly, unsure why he couldn’t find a middle ground between absolute panic and a deadpan, unbothered expression.

“‘ _Dean’_ ,” Uriel murmured. “That was my next guess. ‘Ryan’, pfft, what was I thinking?”

“How… How you doin’?” Dean asked, when Castiel didn’t come up with an acceptable conversation opener in time. Castiel watched Dean’s green eyes flicker around to Cas’ friends. 

“Hot,” Castiel said instead. “It’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted, sliding his free hand into his other pocket and shifting his weight onto one hip, a move that was so sexy it should’ve been illegal. “They picked a bad weekend to have this festival. I’m sweatin’ buckets out here. At least in our booth, there’s coverage.”

“Your booth?” Hannah asked, inserting herself into the conversation with a curious tilt of her head. “Are you a vendor?”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean nodded. “Yeah, Winchester Music & Books. We, uh, we’re between the country and pop fields, just up that path in the vendor’s market.”

“Oh, how interesting,” Hannah said, her eyes bright. “What do you sell?”

Stiffly, Naomi murmured, “I imagine music and books, but what do I know?”

Castiel wanted to throw the water bottle in his hand between her eyes, but he smiled tightly at Dean and finally spoke again. “I...didn’t know you would be here.”

“You didn’t ask,” Dean replied, smiling, his teeth looking so white against his sunburnt, freckly skin. “I didn’t know you’d be coming either. Good to see you.”

Warmed by the way Dean was looking at him—inviting, almost pleased, like he didn’t completely dislike him—Castiel felt a small surge of bravery and began to say, “Yes, same to y—”

“How do you know each other?” Naomi asked sharply, raising her brows over her sunglasses. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh, uh…” Dean hesitated, his eyes lingering on Castiel’s face, and there it was, the doubt. “We…”

“We met at a bar,” Castiel interjected, hoping he could save Dean. Glancing around at everyone—especially Hannah, who had no idea that Castiel was gay—he began, “We—”

“ _When?”_ Naomi asked insistently, looking dismayed that Castiel hadn’t mentioned Dean to her before. He _had_ spoken to her about a hookup last weekend that’d gone nowhere, but he hadn’t gone into details, still having felt too sore about it to divulge much. 

“Last weekend,” Castiel replied, eyeing Dean with hesitance before glancing back at Naomi, whose face was slowly melting into a look of realization. 

Silence fell over the group, a marked feeling of awkward tension sitting between everyone, when Dean spoke up, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’m, uh, here with some people, mainly my staff. They’re manning my booth so I could catch a few shows with my brother, Sam—” Dean gestured over his shoulder to the tall guy with long hair who was chatting with Dean’s...

...Girlfriend. His girlfriend.

“And,” Dean added, gesturing to the girl, “that’s Charlie… Ah, I should just introduce you guys in person. I don’t expect you to remember their names. Uh, y’all sticking around for Manson after?”

“Pft, _absolutely not,”_ Naomi sputtered, flicking her damp bangs from her eyes, while everyone else replied with a chorus of “Yes”, “Oh, sure!”, and “Hell yes.”

There was an awkward pause and Castiel felt intense pressure to fill the gap. Clearing his throat, he said raspily, “Yes, we are. Although I’m feeling a bit unwell, I thought I’d get a drink and find somewhere to cool down before they come on.”

Slowly, he moved his hand holding the half-filled water bottle behind his back. Dean seemed to catch it anyway, and his eyes flickered up from it to Castiel’s face, his pouty lips tugging up on one side. “I was gonna do the same. Kinda boiling under the sun here. I could do with a walk through those misting tents; mind if I come with?”

A smirk curled Naomi’s lips, but it dropped off at the speed of light when Castiel replied quickly, “Yes, of course. I would love to.”

“Cool,” Dean said with a grin that made Castiel feel faint for reasons other than the impending heat stroke. “When we come back, maybe we should, like, join groups or whatever. Hang out for the show and stuff.”

With Naomi’s venomous glare on the back of his head, Castiel stepped away from the group to follow Dean, only pausing to jump a foot in the air when Uriel clapped him on the ass and made a lewd gesture with his fingers. Blushing and trying not to immediately reply with a teasing “ _that’s workplace harassment!”_ —the true extent of his humour. HR jokes, Christ—Castiel followed Dean, falling into step with him as they wove through the crowd and emerged onto the path between the stages. 

“So weird to run into you here,” Dean pointed out, unhooking sunglasses from the top of his sweat-drenched shirt and sliding them onto his face. “What a small world, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied hoarsely, his throat feeling dry despite his outsides feeling drenched. “I didn’t know I would be attending this. I didn’t even know this event existed until Thursday. My coworker Uriel invited me—”

“ _Uriel?_ ” Dean interrupted with a laugh. “Do you only keep friends who have weird-as-fuck names like yours?”

Twisting a bit, incidentally towards Dean, to avoid being run into by a group of bouncing women that smelled a lot like tequila, Castiel shrugged. “He grew up very religious, from what I gathered.”

“And you?” 

Despite the small voice in the back of his head telling him to keep information close lest he get hurt, Castiel admitted, “My adoptive mother was, and she said my birth mother was too. I suspect that’s why she was unable to keep me; she was young. Merely fifteen.

“Riiight,” Dean recalled, wiggling his finger in the air. “Angel of Thursday, I remember now.”

While Castiel didn’t exactly appreciate feeling warmer than he already was, he felt his lips tug up in the corners like he was about to smile. Not wanting to appear flustered, he forced his face to remain neutral. “I’m surprised you remember that detail.”

They were entering the vendor’s area, cutting through to the field where food trucks baked and roasted and cooked cuisines from around the world, and where the alcohol stands poured every drink known to man. 

“Of course I remember. I was listening,” Dean laughed, his smile stretching across his face and making his rosy, shining skin look smoother than ever and very touchable. “I had a drink or two but I wasn’t _drunk._ I remember everything from that night.”

He remembered everything. Despite the fact that the statement probably meant nothing, Castiel found himself smiling anyway. “I remember everything, too. I...had quite a lot of fun.”

He was probably seeing things, because Dean was sunburnt and the freckles made his skin appear warm, but he could’ve sworn Dean blushed a bit. “Yeah,” Dean admitted, licking at his lips and looking ahead at the path in front of them, dodging pedestrians going the opposite way. “I did, too. It was, um, nice, I guess.”

Okay, not as convincing as the potential blush. Castiel exhaled through his mouth and wracked his brain for more to say. “So, that guy...Sam? Is he your half-brother? The adopted one?”

The black watch on Dean’s wrist glimmered in the sun as he waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, Sam’s my full-blood brother, which is a weird way to say that, but you know what I mean. He’s visiting for—for the festival, wanted to see Foo Fighters real bad, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to see Daft Punk _and_ Celine Dion in one day, the nerd. But, uh, yeah, my half-brother Adam lives outta state. We don’t see him much. After my mom died, he kinda jumped ship.”

Despite not knowing Adam, Castiel winced. “I imagine losing two mothers in one lifetime is difficult.”

The comment probably wouldn’t be welcome; honestly, it seemed out of place when the environment around them was upbeat and joyous, when Miley Cyrus shrieked something about peace and love just on the other side of some t-shirt merchants. But to his surprise, Dean’s teeth flashed as he smiled.

“I’m surprised you remembered that detail.”

“I said I remembered everything, too.”

They stopped, joining the line for refreshments, and shared a warm gaze. Dean rocked a bit on the spot and Castiel massaged the water bottle at his side, the water now warm inside it.

“So,” Dean said after licking his lips and stalling for a second, gesturing around at the festival goers who stood in front of them and walked past them in droves, “kinda weird, this crowd, huh? It’s like half the people are in their thirties and forties, and the rest are freshly twenty-one and just wanna do ecstasy and wear weird sunglasses that look like blinds.”

For the first time since they’d locked eyes at the Nine Inch Nails show, Castiel felt relaxed, and they shared a laugh.

Dean went on, shaking his head, “Kinda feel old, like ‘hello fellow kids’—” He adjusted an invisible baseball cap, grinning at his own joke. “—but whatever, I got merch to sell and this was as good of a place as any. Besides, I’m not gonna miss the chance to see Tool for anything. ”

The line moved and they shuffled along with it. Castiel rubbed his forehead with his wrist, pushing clumps of sweaty hair from his sticky forehead. “This is my first music festival. Uriel made me come, slightly under duress. And Naomi wanted to come to babysit me.”

“Is she the, uh, sharp one with the bangs?” When Castiel nodded, Dean chuckled abruptly and asked, “Her name is Naomi? You sure she’s not named Medusa or Hera or something? I thought all your friends were named after angels or ancient greek myths. Naomi, hah.”

With a wry smile, Castiel allowed himself to laugh under his breath. “She can be abrasive, but it’s...always been a part of her personality. I would not take her too seriously.”

An eyebrow rose over the top of Dean’s black wayfarer-style sunglasses. “And she’s here to...babysit you?”

Well, when he said it like that, Castiel couldn’t help but feel waves of heat down his body as he experienced a regrettable amount of embarrassment. He wanted to impress the man, not make him think he was completely pathetic.

“I don’t fare well in large crowds and in the heat,” Castiel admitted sheepishly.

No. No, crap. That just made it worse.

Quickly, he added, “And she wanted to see Jewel.”

Ignoring Castiel’s attempt at a save, Dean gestured around as they shuffled up towards the tiki-style refreshment stand. “Not good with crowds?”

“They make me anxious,” Castiel admitted, wondering why the hell the filter between his brain and mouth malfunctioned so frequently and without warning. 

Dean smirked. “That explains why your pupils are so freakin’ dilated. I thought you were just super high.”

It was incredibly frustrating that Castiel could not simply will the ground to open up and swallow him whole. His pupils were probably dilated because Dean looked _incredible_ , all tanned and relaxed, all sweaty and smirking, his hair damp, his glasses looking so incredibly _cool_ … And Dean just thought he was high. 

He probably acted so awkward that the only explanation could be drugs. Great.

“No,” Castiel murmured, turning to face the front of the line. He fiddled with the water bottle in his hands, twisting off the top. “No, not high.”

Feeling like this whole walk with Dean was turning into a complete disaster—first, Dean had turned up with a girlfriend, then he made fun of Castiel’s friends, and now he’d revealed he figured Castiel was too awkward to be sober—Castiel raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Two gulps in and he choked, coughing as the hot water hit the back of his throat. 

Dean thumped at his back and laughed. “A little warm, huh?”

“It was very warm,” Castiel choked, nodding and screwing the top back onto the bottle.

“Well, let me get you a fresh one.” Dean’s hand, still on Castiel’s back, urged him forward towards the stand as they reached the front. “On me.”

It wasn’t whiskey this time, but Castiel still accepted the drink bought for him with a smile, letting Dean pry the warm bottle from his grip and throw it away in a nearby blue bin. With an extra-large bottle of water in both of their hands, the men headed towards the misting tent just beyond the crowded walkway, the vapour visible over their heads. 

“And the red-headed woman?” Castiel asked, feeling as if he had very little to lose. “She’s… Is she your girlfriend?”

It was Dean’s turn to choke on his water. Castiel panicked a bit as he watched Dean _actually_ choke, gasping for breath and hiccuping while he thumped his fist against his own chest. 

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked in a rush as they came to a dead stop in the middle of the moving crowd, earning them a few passive aggressive comments from people having to detour around them.

“Ye—uh—” Dean sucked in air carefully, his shoulders jumping as he coughed, the sound like a goose honking, and his chest shuddered as he inhaled. “N-No! No, Char—Charl-lie is...fr-friend. She’s a-a friend.”

His hands hovered near Dean’s shoulder, too nervous to touch, not brave enough like Dean had been to thump him on the back. “I’m sorry, I just assumed—you were holding her and I…I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.”

Despite still choking a bit, Dean hiccuped a laugh and waved them forward towards the misting tent. “G-God, no. She’s gay as a unicorn.”

The crowd was unforgiving, squeezing them on either side now that they’d stopped, so Castiel went ahead, his eyes wide as he focused on the misting tent that was so, so close.

“A-And you?” Castiel asked, unsure where he’d earned the right or found the balls to ask Dean such a personal question. “You...um… Are you...”

He felt Dean at his side as they emerged from the crowd, ducking into the misting tent. Cold air blasted in his face and a fine spray of cool water dusted his skin. Relieved, his hot skin drinking in the moisture, Castiel moaned and raised his hands to his face, pushing the cool water into his pores and up through his hair, so, so grateful for the air gusting through his clothing.

After he moaned a second time, a little _“oh”_ escaping his lips as he shut his eyes, he heard Dean’s low chuckle even among the other patrons' giggles and cheers of relief. “Never thought I’d hear _that_ noise from you again.”

Under the cool mist, Castiel flushed hotly. “I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Dean murmured, and well, he was standing very close. 

_It’s because the tent is crowded,_ Castiel reminded himself. Entranced by Dean tugging off his sunglasses and tucking them back in the crew neck t-shirt, Castiel noted his eyes were green like emeralds or blades of grass and flecked with brilliant silver like...like...something poetic. 

“To answer your super-awkward question,” Dean started, grinning, although Castiel noted something very nervous about his eyes as the emerald orbs darted to people around him, “I’m, um… I’m like, you know…”

“G—”

“Not with Charlie,” Dean blurted out instead, wincing as a fat drop of cold water dripped onto his cheek from the misting contraption above their heads. “Not with...any women. Anymore. Just...Just interested in, um…”

“Gay,” Castiel supplied. 

Again, panic flashed across his face, but then Dean grinned quickly. “Yeah, yes. That.” And although it seemed impossible, Castiel was inclined to interpret the hard swallow and the quick dart of his tongue over his lips as awkwardness. “You?”

“Me?” Castiel asked, poking himself in the chest, grunting a bit when the large water bottle in his grasp thumped against his sternum. 

“Yeah.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Are you interested in gay, too?”

Funny. Very funny.

“Yes,” Castiel replied seriously, dipping his chin in a firm nod and watching the mist create a dew on Dean’s hair. “I...am.”

“I know we kind of established that b-before, I mean, _obviously,_ ” Dean laughed, shrugging a shoulder. His fingers fiddled with his glasses at his neck which were now fogged over and speckled in water droplets. “But, y’know...guess it doesn’t hurt to check. God, I can’t believe you thought Charlie was my girlfriend, gross.”

“Gross?” 

“She’s like a little sister. If you knew her, you’d get it.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Yeah, duh, Cas.”

They stared at each other, and then for some reason—maybe he was delirious—they broke out into giggles. 

“The heat is getting to me, what are we even talking about?” Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Let’s get out of this mist, it’s making us too happy. You wanna head back? I can introduce you to Charlie and Sam.”

Dean’s skin was cool and wet when he reached down, his fingers pressing against Castiel’s bare forearm. 

“Sure,” Castiel nodded, turning and leading the way back, his skin pulled up into thrilled peaks as Dean’s hand moved from his arm to his lower back and stayed there. “I’d like that.”

***

Charlie was, as Dean said, gay as a unicorn. Quite literally, every limb of her body was adorned in rainbow jewellery and around her neck she even wore a choker with a dangling cat charm that said, ‘Meow, I Love Pussy’.

Dean’s brother, Sam, was _not_ gay like a unicorn but was very nice, if a bit quiet, and unfairly handsome. He had a strong brow with equally strong shoulders and was about an entire foot taller than almost everyone, giving him a gangly look that probably couldn’t be avoided. He and Dean had the same type of style; plaid button downs and jeans, though Castiel noticed that Sam wore a very old-looking black t-shirt under his mustard-coloured plaid that said WINCHESTER VINYL & ROCK EST. 1974 around a line-art record with a pentagram inside of it, surrounded by the rays of a sun.

Castiel felt his lips twist into a smile; the company logo reminded him of the tattoo inked into Dean’s skin above his heart.

Interestingly, Dean introduced him as a friend, which felt good, but the introduction stopped there and Dean’s friends didn’t pry further. When it was Castiel’s turn to introduce his friends to these new acquaintances, he introduced Dean as a friend as well. Uriel was nice enough but clearly distracted as Manson came on; Hannah was her usual amount of cheery and curious, asking Sam and Dean questions about Sam’s shirt and probing Charlie to give her a tour of all of her rainbow jewellery. Naomi shook Sam and Charlie’s hands briefly, but also pretended to care about Marylin Manson, which Castiel knew to be blasphemy in itself. 

He could tell from her silence, her hands clasped at her front and the hard line of her mouth that she was angry. 

He was sure he’d hear all about it later.

The conversation between the melded groups was quite easy, especially with Sam and Hannah steering it, their excitement about the festival clear in their easy smiles and wide eyes. Castiel stayed quiet, happy to simply observe, and happier that Dean’s bare arm kept grazing his own as they stood fairly close. Nothing about Dean gave much away, but he did glance over as their skin brushed, flashing a quick smile and a wink hidden behind his sunglasses.

They stayed to watch Rob Zombie, but when the—admittedly fantastic and entertaining—show ended, Dean and his friends had to take over for his staff covering his booth, and Naomi pleaded to be ‘released from this satanic torture’. For the second time in one week, Castiel said goodbye to Dean and watched his back retreat, yet again, without his number in his possession.

Angry with himself, Castiel lowered his eyes and glared at a discarded cigarette butt on the ground. He’d been a complete coward...again. 

“You guys camped out here?”

Castiel raised his head quickly, Dean’s voice carrying over to them from fifteen feet away. He stood with his hands in his pockets, smirking at the deer-in-headlights look Castiel was pinning on him. Sam and Charlie stopped too, glancing back at Dean.

“Uh…”

“Nah,” Uriel interrupted, catching the ball that Castiel was fumbling like a rookie. “We’re at a hotel up the street.” He paused, glancing at Naomi. “By order of her Majesty, the Queen.”

“Well,” Dean said loudly, shrugging, “I brought way too much beer for Charlie and I to drink, and Sam’s selectively gluten-intolerant—”

“No, I’m not, Dean! I’m just watching my—”

“ _—so_ ,” Dean pushed through with a grin, “we’re parked in field seven, just under the busted field lights. You’ll find us between the white van with ‘Winchester Music & Books’ plastered on the side and the most majestic 1967 Chevy Impala you’ve ever seen. Can’t miss us.”

“Oh, no—” Naomi started in a huff, but Uriel interrupted her, nudging Castiel in the arm.

“I don’t drink Bud Light like no frat boy, Frat Boy,” Uriel called back to Dean, smirking, “but after I find me some Grey Goose, we’ll be there. Castiel can help you polish off that case of bubbly piss juice.”

Dean rolled his eyes, which Castiel was thankful for because that saved him from punching Uriel right in the stomach. He would’ve never _done_ that of course, but he’d imagine it with quite some fervour.

“I’m gluten-free, too!” Hannah yelled out to Sam, who grinned.

“You’re drinking with me, then,” Sam laughed, winking.

“Gross, Sam.” Dean chuckled as he raised his hand to wave. “See you guys later, then.”


	4. The Festival: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Kradarua for her kick-ass beta'ing. F'real. MVP right here.
> 
> Also, big thanks to Nickelkeep, Banshee, and Aidokme for helping me out with all the music festival knowledge. Y'all were such a big help!
> 
> Part two, this weekend, as promised! Enjoy!
> 
> Behold the playlist for this ~~music festival~~ chapter: [You Were Meant For Me - Jewel](https://youtu.be/fGj77BrEgj4), [I Think I'm Paranoid - Garbage](https://youtu.be/61AdC4G2ULU), [Only Like It When It Rains - Garage](https://youtu.be/vE2tcalBh9w), [Empty - Garbage](https://youtu.be/OGXKAnk4Y6U), [#1 Crush - Garbage](https://youtu.be/8VzizuGQ9DY), and [Push It - Garbage](https://youtu.be/DbOfWowW9eo).

Despite all of Naomi’s bitching and moaning about her sore feet and not wanting to ‘drink out of the back of a van like a hillbilly’, she still tagged along when they headed to find the Winchesters and Charlie, muttering mockery under her breath as Hannah sipped vodka out of a water bottle and Uriel’s brown paper bag crunched in his fist at his side. They wove through the circus of cars and tents, of makeshift barbeques and campsites of people sitting on coolers around fires that Castiel was sure were not entirely legal.

It turned out that Field 7 was the size of a football field, and fifteen minutes into wandering in between cars, Castiel was starting to think Dean had either misremembered where he parked or he’d lied. The latter option had Castiel’s cheeks burning by the time they rounded the corner of a large mobile home to see what was arguably the loveliest retro muscle car he’d ever seen in person. 

“Hannah, hey!” Sam greeted, waving from his seat at the back of a big white van with—as promised— _Winchester’s Music and Books_ plastered on the side in old school tattoo font and curled around the pentagram logo. His long legs hung off the back, though his feet were flat on the ground. Beside him, Charlie’s legs swung loftily, her toes barely touching the grass.

“You found us!” Charlie yelled out to them. “Even with Dean’s shitty directions! Hey, Dean—Cas is here!”

 _‘Cas is here’_. Not ‘Hannah and friends’ or ‘those people from that show’. _‘Cas’_ was here. The very specific wording made Castiel’s lips split into a smile he couldn’t control, even if he was looking _way_ too much into it.

Dean’s head popped out from the side of the Impala’s trunk, his gaze sweeping the area until he locked eyes with Castiel. For a breathless moment, he expected Dean to look annoyed or disappointed, as if he’d hoped he wouldn’t come. But Dean’s lips curled into a grin and he nodded, jutting his chin upwards. “You made it. D’you get lost or what?”

Castiel opened his mouth to say something maybe, sort of, hopefully clever, but Uriel butted in, barking, “Next time draw us a map, genius! Took us too damn long to get here.”

“Agreed,” Naomi said bitterly, her lips twisted as she slipped in a questionable puddle beside a pile of discarded feather boas. “I feel like I’m trekking through the apocalypse.”

As though he couldn't bear to be on the same page as Naomi, Uriel scowled and added as they came to a stop in front of their new acquaintances, “Might have been quicker if Her Royal Highness hadn’t wanted to stop by the hotel for the bottle of wine in her luggage.”

“You’re not the only one unable to stomach Bud Light, Uriel,” Naomi snapped, her brows knitting together in a scowl as she shifted her weight onto her hip and crossed her arms over her chest. The top of her wine bottle popped out of the side of her backpack as if to say, ‘yuck, beer!’

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greeted, his bow-legged stride doing something suspect to Castiel’s knees. With nothing but ease in his shoulders—perhaps Dean had already had a few drinks—he wiggled two bottles in the air and extended one to Castiel. “You want one? Come on, man, drink the sewer sludge with us heathens.”

Charlie tapped her phone on the side of her bottle and chanted, “One of us! One of us!”

“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly, accepting the beer and holding it firmly as Dean used a bottle opener on his key ring to pop off the top. “I’m not picky.”

“Ooh!” Hannah breathed, her eyes widening at the white van, peering into it over Sam and Charlie’s shoulder. “Is that all of your merch?”

Sam looked over his shoulder at racks of what appeared to be band shirts and some cardboard boxes. “Oh, yeah. Well, some of it. T-shirts and books, mostly. We have another van with the expensive stuff like vinyl and signed items, but Dean’s employee Kevin is looking after that.”

“He’s parked off in another field ‘cause his girlfriend and her friends are there,” Dean explained, though his lips twitched disapprovingly. “Idiot kid better not lose or break anything.”

“Watch it, dork,” Charlie said with a snap of her fingers. “Kevin’s smarter than all of us combined. Well,” she paused, grinning, “except for me.”

“May I see inside?” Hannah asked, shuffling between Sam and Charlie to peer in the van.

Sam pulled up his legs and fumbled to his knees. “Oh, yeah, sure. Hop in, I’ll show you what we got.”

Castiel stood with Dean, watching Sam show off the Winchester’s merchandise. Even Uriel and Naomi were drawn to the items, looking into boxes as Sam slid them out to the edge and helped Hannah into the van with a large, extended hand.

When Dean snorted, Castiel turned his head glance at him.

“Dude probably doesn’t know half of the stuff in there,” Dean muttered with an upward twitch of his lips before bringing his beer bottle to his mouth. 

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Sam?”

“He’s visiting,” Dean clarified, gesturing with the amber glass at his brother, who was giving a fumbled tour of their product. “Doesn’t really work for me, he’s just helping. He actually just passed the bar a year ago and is doing a judicial clerkship in California.”

“Are you from California?”

“Nah,” Dean murmured, lowering his eyes to watch his bottle as he swished the bottom through the air loftily. “We’re from Lawrence, born and raised, but he went to college at Stanford and stayed there.”

Buying himself a few moments, Castiel drank from the beer and coughed a bit as the bitter hops hit the back of his throat—well, he figured it was hops, he knew just about as much about beer as he did about music festivals. He shook his head a bit and grimaced, ignoring the shit-eating grin on Dean’s face, and asked, “Is he visiting for long?”

“Just for the weekend,” Dean murmured in reply, shrugging. Castiel watched Dean take a long sip and took extra care to watch him lick a droplet of beer from his bottom lip before Dean was jerking his head towards the muscle car. “You wanna meet Baby?”

“B...Baby?”

He’d named the car.

“Yeah, come on,” Dean said with a friendly pat on his arm, a touch that lingered. As his hand dropped away, it grazed down the side of Castiel’s ribs, and all Castiel could do was clench his jaw and try not to shudder. He wondered if Dean was touchy with all of his friends.

Then again, he’d had his arm around Charlie the entire Nine Inch Nails show, so…probably. 

At that, Castiel felt a little less special as he followed Dean to the muscle car. “Is it yours?”

“Not ‘it’,” Dean corrected as he stopped at her driver seat door, turning on his heel and holding up a finger in warning. “‘She’. She’s a lady, Cas.”

“She,” Castiel repeated in a rumble, licking his lips and holding the neck of his beer in his fist against his stomach. “Yes, of course. My apologies.”

“It’s okay,” Dean laughed, holding up a hand. “We’ll give you a pass just this once. Now check her out.”

Dean gave him a thorough tour, explaining everything from the engine model to the vintage upholstery, and leading him through little details like the tiny green army men Sam had shoved into the vents and ashtray as a toddler. The most impressive thing about her was the hidden compartment in the trunk—Dean had installed it himself—where he had all manner of strange possessions; vintage vinyl records, a guitar, a box of old jewellery, a colt rifle that had so much dust on it that it looked gray, and of course, a case of beer.

Castiel knew absolutely nothing about cars or vinyl records, but he listened with interest, entirely engaged in the bright look in Dean’s eye and the seemingly permanent smile on his face when he explained how he’d done most of the auto-body work himself and how he and Sam had grown up in that car. By the time Dean had arrived at explaining how he’d spent an entire family road trip through Colorado puking in the back seat of the car thanks to a flu, he and Castiel were sitting on the bumper, the open trunk providing a small nook where they almost felt alone.

Almost. They faced the back of a large green tent belonging to other festival goers that were playing King’s Cup and shrieking at ear-splitting volumes whenever someone broke a rule. Still, Dean seemed happy to be sitting with him just chatting, away from their friends, and it felt nice to feel his thigh pressed against his own and their bare forearms brushing.

It was the most relaxed Castiel had felt all day.

“You? Siblings?” Dean asked. “I told you about taco-food-poisoning puke-time, so spill.”

Staring at the bottle held loosely in his fingers between his knees, Castiel shook his head. “No. I had several foster-siblings during my time in the system, but none that I ultimately kept in contact with. My adoptive mother spoke about adopting another child after me, but one year into our relationship, she decided against it. ‘Too much trouble for little reward’ were her words.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes.”

“She sounds like…”

Castiel raised his eyes. Dean winced, staring back at him. 

“I apologize,” Castiel murmured. “Your stories were amusing. Mine are simply...depressing.”

“Yeah, way to bring the mood down,” Dean said, and Castiel opened his mouth to apologize again, his heart dropping, but then Dean grinned and winked.

“Just kidding, Cas. She sounds like a real peach.” Dean wiggled the beer bottle in his hand over his shoulder towards the white van. “What about Hannah? She your cousin?”

Scratching lightly at his jawline, Castiel nodded. “Yes. My adopted mother’s sister’s daughter.”

“Yeah, I know what a cousin is, Cas.”

While Castiel looked up quickly with heat spreading over his face, Dean was looking all too amused with himself and again, Castiel realised he was joking. “I just mean that you guys seem close.”

“We’re not,” Castiel admitted. “Before this weekend, it had been years since I saw her. Over ten years, to be more specific. But we were both only teens and our mothers forced us to bond. Hannah has recently been ‘disowned’, if you want to call it that. Disagreements about religion between her and her mother and... Never mind, I don’t wish to bore you, I’m sorry.”

To his surprise and delight, Dean snorted and slid an arm around his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “Don’t sweat it, Cas. We all got our family shit. Ain’t nobody here in the Brady bunch. I mean,” he paused to wink, “it explains how sheltered you both are. It wasn’t like, a cult thing, was it?”

Sometimes it felt like it, Castiel thought, recalling all the things he wasn’t allowed to do, or people he wasn’t allowed to talk to or associate with. There had been too many class trips he wasn’t authorized to go on, foods he wasn’t allowed to eat, music he wasn’t allowed to listen to. His house hadn’t had a TV or radio, and the only time he’d been allowed on a computer before college had been at Hannah’s house, where she’d been allowed to play only the games which her mother had screened first for ‘appropriate themes’.

His intimate relationship with music had existed only under the bedsheets in his bedroom late at night, fed into his ears from the walkman he had hid under the mattress. 

Castiel only realised he hadn’t answered when he was jogged out of his train of thought by Dean’s arm sliding off his stiff shoulders. 

“How was Destiny’s Child?” Dean asked, pausing his beer bottle’s journey to his lips to chuckle. “Weirdo.”

Finally given a question he could freely answer, Castiel’s dry lips twisted into a smile that he tried to make subtle. “So good. Very, very good. It was everything I always wanted.”

“Oh, yeah? You ascended to Heaven when they played ‘ _Bootylicious’_ , hey, Cas?”

“Don’t be silly,” Castiel said bluntly, before he glanced up at the sky and added in a murmur, “My soul left my body when they performed _‘Say My Name’_.”

They shared an easy laugh when Dean pressed his fingers into his eyes and groaned. “Ugh, no offence, dude, but you’re a nerd.”

“If you think I’m embarrassing, you should’ve seen Hannah’s face when TLC sang _‘No Scrubs’_ ,” Castiel muttered into his beer. “I wish I could have heard them perform but she was screaming the lyrics at them.”

Tilting their heads back, they finished off their drinks at the same time, chuckling around mouths full of beer. When Castiel had choked his down completely and wiped at his mouth, he allowed Dean to pull the empty bottle from his fingers, wrapping his fist around the cool, wet replacement Dean slid in its stead.

“So, who else you watching tomorrow?” Dean asked. 

Making sure not to pull out his highlighted list—Dean already thought he was enough of a loser and even Castiel knew the list would make it worse—Castiel swallowed cool beer and hissed at the burn before he answered; “I’ve seen all I’ve wanted to see, so I’ll be at the mercy of Hannah, Naomi, and Uriel’s whims. Uriel mentioned something about a Tragically Hip cover band and Ja Rule? Not sure if he was joking about that, but I’ll definitely be dragged to Jewel at some point. Naomi doesn’t like many things but she does love Jewel.”

“Brutal,” Dean replied with a shake of his head. Castiel watched his dry, sunburnt skin crinkle across his nose with a warm flare of affection. “I’m taking over the vendor stand tomorrow to close off the festival and give Kev the day off with his girlfriend to watch some shows. But Sam and Charlie are gonna be flitting between the country and electronica areas, which, I gotta admit, I’m okay with missing. In truth, I dig all these early 2000’s bands and stuff, but I’m usually a classic rock kinda dude.”

“I imagine knowing many musicians is part of your job, though,” Castiel pointed out, feeling the welcome tingle of alcohol buzzing through his body, and his legs opened a bit, bumping knees with Dean. 

“I mean, yeah,” Dean huffed. “Gotta know lots of genres and stuff, and I’ll kill you if you tell anyone, but I could karaoke some Taylor Swift with my eyes closed.”

Green eyes winked at him—both of them, Dean wasn’t very good at winking—so Castiel murmured fondly in response, “Your secret is safe with me.”

That earned him a shoulder nudge and the pleasant view of Dean smiling around another sip of beer. Dean's pink tongue slipped out to lick his bottom lip again and Castiel wondered if he’d blinked even once as he stared at Dean’s mouth. 

_Blink like a human, you pervert._

“I’m definitely not missing Tool though,” Dean went on conversationally, his eyebrows rising on his forehead. “And I wanna make it for some of Garbage. I mean, even gay as I am, I love Shirley Manson.”

Curiously, Dean seemed to start a bit, a range of emotions flitting over his face. There was an uncomfortable moment where he almost seemed...angry.

Then he went on, his tone steady and casual, “I mean, she’s hot, I guess. Nice voice. It’s all raspy and stuff.”

Between his bow-legged knees, Dean was picking at the paper wrapper around his beer. The hinge of his jaw jumped as Dean rolled his tongue in his mouth, rotating his jaw like he had been punched.

“I’d love to see Garbage,” Castiel admitted, “but Daft Punk is on at the same time and I promised Hannah I’d see them with her.”

“Mmm. What about Tool?” Dean asked, and Castiel could’ve sworn he sounded hopeful. “You goin’ to Tool?”

“What time do they perform?”

“Three o’clock.”

His heart sank. “I’ll be watching Jewel with Naomi at three. She’d kill me if I left her alone after I promised to go. I—”

He was cut off when grass crunched at the side of the Impala and the small space in the trunk that’d been carved out for him and Dean was suddenly public again. Hannah, Charlie, and Sam turned the corner. 

“Where did you _find_ those two?” Sam asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. 

Dean and Castiel exchanged looks, and he sought out Hannah to raise a brow in question. “Pardon me?”

“Naomi and Uriel,” Sam murmured, glancing over his shoulder. “They’ve been snapping at each other for like five minutes straight about Dark Side of the Moon. Charlie and Uriel think it’s got satanic messages when it’s played backwards, and Naomi keeps calling Uriel a ‘dumbass’ to his face. Uh, are they married or something?”

When beer came straight out of Castiel’s nose, Dean laughed so hard he sounded like a bleating sheep. Castiel coughed and sputtered, wiping frantically at his face, gasping as his nose burned, but it was almost worth it to make Dean laugh like that. _Almost._

“Oh, God no,” Castiel rasped hoarsely. The thought of Uriel and Naomi married to each other was ghastly. It would bring on the apocalypse. “They hadn’t known each other before today.”

“They’re quite miserable, Castiel,” Hannah said matter-of-factly, nodding, her blue eyes wide. “I question your choice of friends.”

Patting at his nose, his eyes round as saucers, Castiel huffed. “They...are...out of their element. Naomi especially.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam replied quickly, nodding and leaning on the back blinker of the car. “No, totally. Anyway, uh, what were you two talking about?”

“Tomorrow,” Dean said promptly, glancing at Castiel. “Looks like we won’t be running into each other again. No Tool, no Garbage. Cas is booked solid.”

Castiel nodded at Hannah. “I’m at Jewel with Naomi for Tool and at Daft Punk with you during Garbage. I promise,” he assured her, “I won’t leave you alone.”

“Oh,” Sam said, shifting on his feet and glancing down at Hannah. “I’m going to Daft Punk with Charlie, Hannah.”

“You should come,” Charlie offered.

Sam nodded, “You could come with if you don’t want to go alone, I mean, if you want. If Cas wants to hit up Garbage with Dean.”

Castiel shook his head, “That’s kind, Sam, but—”

“Oh, okay!” Hannah interrupted, her cheery smile beaming up at Sam. “If you don’t mind if I tag along, I’d love that. It’ll be quite fun, won’t it?”

Castiel’s mouth hung open, unsure if he should be offended or pleased by her easy dismissal of their previous plans. 

“You don’t mind?” Castiel clarified, narrowing his eyes.

Hannah winced, glancing at him as though she had only just remembered he was there. “If...you don’t mind? I’d love for you to come, Cuz, but if you’d like to see Garbage, I’m more than all right to go with Sam. And Charlie,” she added quickly when Charlie rolled her eyes at the dark sky.

Dean’s hand thumped against his chest, pulling Castiel’s gaze back to his face, his grin spread over his lips, his pointy canine teeth glittering mischievously. “That settles it, Cas. You, me, Shirley Manson. It’s a date.”

Despite Hannah’s presence, Castiel felt a thrill through his middle that settled in his cheeks, pulling them into a smile. 

“It’s a date.” 

* * *

_“I never put white towels on the floor anymore,_

_‘Cause, dreams so long,_

_Even after you’re gone._

_I know that you love me,_

_And soon you will see…_

_You were meant for me,_

_and I was meant for you...”_

As prickly and spiky as Naomi was, she was easily malleable if Jewel was playing in any capacity. So she hardly noticed as Castiel checked the time on his phone throughout the show, too busy watching Jewel strum her guitar up on stage and wail into the mic to notice him. If he wasn’t eager to go watch Garbage with Dean, he might’ve enjoyed the show a bit more, especially because Naomi was actually rather pleasant as she sang along and leaned back on her palms, bouncing her feet to the melody.

Overlayed in front of his screensaver (Jack sleeping happily in a patch of sun in the middle of the bed), the time said 3:45. Fifteen minutes until Garbage started.

Castiel cleared his throat, sitting up and brushing off dirt and grass where it had embedded into his palms. “So, Naomi...if you don’t mind, I might head off early.”

Midway through a sing-along moment, Naomi blinked and looked over, tugging her sunglasses up to squint at him. “Head off early? What do you mean? Are we leaving?”

“Not _leaving,”_ Castiel admitted, feeling like he was on the brink of being hit in the face with a Louis Vuitton purse. “I have one more show to see at four o’clock and I know it won’t interest you—”

“What show?” she demanded, shaking her head a bit and frowning, her glasses dropping back down onto her nose. “We don’t have any other shows planned today and I am _not_ going to that Ja Rule show. Uriel can kiss my—”

“No, no,” Castiel interrupted, sighing. He’d been avoiding telling her about his... _not-date_ with Dean. “Garbage is playing on the rock field in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, then wait fifteen minutes for this to end and then you can go do that. Shirley Manson’s droning is simply not for me. You can go alone.”

Bracing himself, Castiel murmured, “I won’t be alone.”

Naomi tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at Jewel behind her glasses. “Hannah is going? She was rather shrill about seeing Ashanti or whatever her name is. I don't know if that's next, but I didn’t think she’d want to miss that.”

“Um, no. I’d like to duck out of this a bit early to, um, meet up with Dean at his booth so we can head to Garbage together. I hope you don’t mind...”

By the way Naomi’s lips pursed, the gloss on them shimmering in the unforgiving sun, she did mind. A lot.

“I see,” she said coldly, flicking her bangs out of her eyes. “And you have to meet up with him early at his booth because he didn’t want your number. _Again_. How interesting.”

She had a point and he hated her for a moment because of it. 

“He has no obligation to ask for it,” Castiel said stiffly.

“And you haven’t been courageous enough to ask for his, of course,” she replied simply, sniffing and adjusting her arms back onto the jean jacket she leaned on.

Instead of responding, Castiel began to climb to his feet, wincing as his back cracked audibly.

“I don’t understand why you’re enamoured with this man,” Naomi went on, glaring at Jewel who was strumming her guitar into her next song. “He clearly had no interest in keeping contact with you after your encounter. Go see Garbage with him all you want, but be careful, Castiel. He’s charming and handsome, but it’s likely he only wants you for one thing.”

“Yes,” Castiel growled, leaning over to brush dirt off the back of his jeans. “Thank you, Naomi. I know that.”

“Do you? Because if you were smart about this, you’d sit back down and let him get his jollies fulfilled by some other poor sap who has a weakness for freckles and a good jawline.”

“I’m going,” Castiel said bluntly, snatching his warm water bottle from the ground. “I’ll text you when the show is over.”

“Are we not going to talk about how he introduced you as ‘a friend’ and no one seemed to know who you were?” Naomi scoffed, sitting upright and waving her hand at him. “He’d never mentioned you to them, but the entire day after you went down on him, the texts from you on my phone were nothing but ‘you should’ve seen his smile’ and ‘we really made a connection’. I just think—”

“Why don’t you raise your voice just a little more so that Jewel can tune into the conversation, too,” Castiel growled, his teeth hurting from grinding their way through her spiel. “Maybe she also has some opinions about my personal life. _My_ personal life.”

“Fine,” Naomi snapped, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “Go. Have fun. I’ll be here for you when he makes you feel special for one measly hour and then disappears out of your life like a wisp of smoke. Just be prepared for an ‘I told you so’.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Castiel retorted, walking away from her before he did anything immature that she could use against him later. He could hear her sneer already; " _Really, Castiel? In all of your 34 years, no one ever taught you to not kick wads of grass at your friends in anger?”_

But by the time he had woven through the spectators and melded into the moving crowds on the vendor’s path, his anger had dissipated. Naomi was his friend and she was worried. And maybe… Maybe she was sort of right. Dean really hadn’t seemed to have told his friends about their encounter or that they knew each other as more than buddies. Maybe the invite to watch the show was truly just Dean’s way of buttering him up to…

This was ridiculous. Did Naomi truly expect him to get on his knees and fellate Dean in front of everyone at the Garbage show?

Still, his doubts slowed his stride and by the time he found Winchester’s Music and Books between the pop and country stages, he was late.

“Dude,” Dean called out to him from a lawn chair behind a broad table covered in band t-shirts, boxes of vinyl records, and comic book merchandise, “I thought you’d stood me up. Garbage started five minutes ago.”

He’d said it with good humour, but Castiel was already a nervous bundle of doubt so all he heard was _‘thanks a lot, you’ve made me late.’_

“My apologies, Dean,” Castiel murmured, stopping in front of the table and rubbing his hands at his sides, trying not to make awkward eye contact with one of Dean’s peeved-looking employees. Maybe this was ‘Kev’. “Um, hello.”

“Hey,” Maybe-Kev said flatly, nodding a bit from his lawn chair, sounding unimpressed with what Castiel had thought was an otherwise normal greeting. 

“Ignore him,” Dean said with a disapproving glance at his employee as he rooted around in a box under the table. “Kevin is annoyed that he’s missing Calvin Harris so I can get one damn hour off today.”

“Two!” Kevin piped up, his frustration seeming to bubble out of his mouth. His thin arms gestured vaguely out towards the crowd. “Two hours! Three days ago you said I’d only have to work for one hour so you could catch Tool, but now I’m sitting here sweating my nuts off under this stupid tent because you want to go on an impromptu date with Keanu Reeves!”

While Dean rolled his eyes, continuing his quest for something in the brown box, Castiel felt like there had been a minor explosion in his chest. ‘Date’. Kevin said they were going on a date.

Screw Naomi and her sabotaging mental-lobotomy. 

“It’s not a date, Kevin, shut up,” Dean snapped, dropping the box to the ground with a thump and shoving it under the white table cloth with his foot. 

The explosion fizzled out like someone had dumped salt onto it. Okay, not a date. Castiel hoped his disappointment wasn’t clear as day on his face.

Dean threw two shirts over his shoulder and pointed at his employee. “No more whining, Kevin. Remember that time you got drunker than me at my own birthday and called in sick the next day? Remember how I had originally booked that time off to recuperate but instead had to come into work because of you? Huh?”

Kevin lowered his gaze to a pile of Taylor Swift t-shirts in front of him and began rearranging them, muttering soundlessly to himself. 

“Yeah, I freakin’ thought so,” Dean grumbled, shimmying in between two corners of the tables that had locked him into the stand. “Hang tight, AP Nerd. See you in like an hour.”

Kevin’s head lifted quickly and with puppy eyes, he exclaimed, “Come back by five, Dean. Please. If I miss Pink, Channing will dump me, I swear. I don’t wanna be single again, man. It sucks.” Kevin paused, smirking. “As you know.”

“Okay, well, fuck you and goodbye,” Dean snapped, reaching out to grab Castiel by the shoulder and steer him into the crowd. 

“Sorry about Kevin,” Dean murmured once they were out of hearing range, glancing back at the booth. “He’s a nice enough kid, just kinda grumpy. He works hard for the shop and is basically my best employee, so I let shit slide for him.”

Dean didn’t actually seem upset that they were late for the concert. As a matter of fact, after a few minutes of talking casually and walking through crowds, they found a spot near the stage with a good view of the band, who were late to start the show anyway. 

As they watched the band come out and thank everyone for coming, Dean tugged one of the t-shirts off his shoulder and gifted one to Castiel.

“Here, take a souvenir, courtesy of Winchester Music and Books,” Dean said with a grin as Castiel blinked dumbly at the soft cotton material in his hands.

“Is this for me?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean tugged his t-shirt—a worn black WINCHESTER VINYL & ROCK EST. 1974 shirt, just like the one Sam’d worn yesterday—over his head, seemingly unashamed about baring his back and chest to the people around them. His skin—shoulders, back, tummy—were _so_ freckled, so much more than Castiel had noticed in the dim lighting of his kitchen. He only realised he was staring when Dean smacked him on the arm with his hand. “No, dude, not for you. I just wanted you to hold it for me so I could wear two Garbage shirts at the same time.”

“Oh, uh—”

Castiel actually jutted the shirt back at Dean. _He wanted to do what?_ Was this some fashion thing Castiel had no idea about… He found himself staring down at his own blank blue t-shirt and plain jeans and wondering if he was doing something wrong.

From the neck of the fresh grey t-shirt that had a large courier ‘g’ plastered across the front, Dean grinned. “I’m kidding, dude. It’s for you, but you don’t gotta put it on or anything. I’m just the type of nerd who wears the band t-shirt to see the band.”

Dean tucked his other t-shirt into his back pocket, the material hanging out like a mechanic's rag, and he smirked as Castiel internally panicked. He wanted to impress the guy, but he wasn’t as open as Dean was about nudity. 

The band was opening, the beginning notes of ‘ _No Horses’_ thrumming out from the speakers. With everyone else's eyes on the band, Castiel tucked the gift between his legs and held his breath as he yanked his shirt over his head and quickly threw on the new one, shoving his arms into the holes too quickly and putting it on backwards at first.

“This is a mess,” he growled to himself, and Dean’s amused chuckles didn’t help him any, merely heating up his cheeks and making him sweat even more into the fresh cotton of the shirt he rotated around his body until Shirley Manson’s grungy early-90’s face looked up at him from his chest.

“Hey, it fits. Look at that,” Dean said with a grin. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, running his hands over the new shirt. With the rigamarole of getting the shirt on correctly finished, he tucked his hot sweaty shirt into his back pocket like Dean had, and let the fact that Dean had given him something sink in. He licked at his lips and fought hard against the urge to smile. “Thank you, it feels better to change into something I haven’t been wearing all day. How...much do I owe you?”

Dean seemed to be fighting a smile too as he gazed at Shirley Manson. With a slide of his hands into his jean pockets, Dean glanced over and said firmly, “Dude, no. It’s a gift. You keep those.”

“Oh…”

“Besides,” Dean added, his teeth dragging over his bottom lip as he shrugged, “maybe it was all a ruse to get your shirt off, who knows?”

Maybe it wasn’t a date and maybe Naomi was right—a seed of doubt had been planted inside his stomach, twinging a bit—but Dean’s subtle flirtation had Castiel scrunching his lips together as they settled to watch the show, trying not to smile for entire minutes at a time.

Dean tapped his toe and sang under his breath, and as the minutes ticked by and Shirley Manson paced the stage, her red hair bouncing in a pin straight ponytail from atop her head, the tension in Castiel’s shoulders drained again. 

As ‘ _I Think I’m Paranoid’_ and _‘Only Like It When It Rains’_ played, the crowd around them swayed and the two of them joined in, their shoulders bumping. In the late summer afternoon, the heat was dying down somewhat and a comfortable breeze rustled their hair. At one point, Castiel reached up to push his fringe from his forehead as it flapped messily, and when his hand dropped back down to his side, Dean’s fingers brushed his.

Thinking it was an accident, Castiel smiled tightly, catching Dean’s eye and quickly diverting his gaze back to the stage. But as Shirley Manson swayed in front of her mic, she began singing the beginning of ‘ _Empty_ ’ and Dean decided that was the perfect time to pull a move, apparently.

“Hey, can you hold this for me?” Dean asked, raising a fist.

Castiel blinked, wondering if he’d been too distracted by the song to realise Dean had pulled something from his pocket. Distracted and flustered, Castiel blurted out, “Oh, yes. Of course—”

He opened his hand for Dean to drop...something into his palm, but instead Dean’s fist uncurled and he intertwined their fingers, dropping their joined hands between their hips.

“Cool, thanks,” Dean said with a wink and a crooked smile.

Who cared if Naomi was right? Castiel stopped trying to restrain a smile and instead, to his own surprise, he laughed. “Very smooth, Dean.”

“Yeah, I’m all right some times,” Dean admitted, shrugging his shoulders and giving their sweaty palms a squeeze. “Can’t believe that worked. Either I’m a genius or you’re too gullible.”

It was absolutely the second one, but Castiel chuckled and murmured, “Could be either.”

His skin seemed to vibrate and it had nothing to do with the way the speakers blasted from either side of them, thumping and rumbling in their chests. Dean’s hand never went limp or inattentive in his, and by the time _'#1 Crush'_ rolled around, Castiel almost forgot they weren’t permanently stuck together, his hand feeling entirely at home in Dean’s grasp. Castiel resisted pointing out that this was the song that they’d kissed to before, but apparently Dean hadn’t forgotten either.

When the song finished, Dean leaned close so his breath puffed against Castiel’s ear and he teased, “That song was pretty good, you ever hear it before?”

For the smallest of moments, Castiel opened his mouth to correct him, but the playful smile on Dean’s face and the twinkle in his eye had Cas pressing his lips together into a smile, too. 

“Yes, once or twice.”

“Heard it’s fun to dance to,” Dean said. “You dance?”

The electronic buzz signalling the beginning of _‘Push It’_ quaked through the speakers and Shirley Manson droned, _“I was angry when I met you, I think I’m angry still…”_

“I do. Sometimes.”

Around them others began to dance too, bobbing their heads and stepping side-to-side.

Dean’s eyes flickered over his face, and his lips pursed and tilted to the side in what could only be described as a smarmy smirk. Instead of dropping another cheesy pick-up line that Castiel was doing his best not to take literally, Dean turned his body towards him, sliding his hand over Castiel’s waist gently, only becoming firm as his palm pressed into his back just like it had at the club. 

They’re bodies moved together slowly, hips dragging from side-to-side. Again, Dean had minimal rhythm, but Castiel took the lead, sliding his leg forward bravely, parting Dean’s legs a bit and leading the movement. As he guided them, Dean rocked his head a bit, singing in a murmur that Castiel felt against his lips, “ _Don’t worry, baby, we’ll be alright. This is the noise that keeps me awake, my head explodes and my body aches…_ ”

He couldn’t sing to save his life, but Castiel watched his lips anyway, captivated as Dean licked at them and continued to sing as strobe lights from the stage flared out over the crowd, dousing them in rays of magenta and red light. 

Maybe it was the lights, or Dean’s slightly damp lips or shining skin, or the way their hips were fused together, or Dean’s hand guiding Castiel’s free hand onto his shoulder, but a confidence Castiel hadn’t ever known without the encouragement of alcohol settled in his chest. With a shaky exhale, he leaned forward and kissed Dean.

Naomi couldn’t be right if _Castiel_ was the one making the first move. 

But all thoughts of her disappeared when Dean kissed him back, the fingers they had intertwined clinging more firmly. _‘Push It’_ kept playing, and the lights changed to green and blue as the song reached a crescendo. They danced and ground against each other, never stopping to break the kiss. 

The song changed to another, and then another, and they danced, taking breaks only to laugh or kiss, or for Dean to sing off-key Garbage at him with a mischievous little grin. His pointy canines teased him and only served to pull their lips together again. 

Only when Shirley Manson finally closed off the show with _‘Stupid Girl’_ and then thanked the audience for coming did they pull their bodies apart, joining the rest of the audience in cheering her off stage. Well, Dean whistled and cheered, while Castiel clapped and tried to keep his eyes on her bouncing pony tail and big shoes instead of staring dopily at Dean who looked well-kissed and incredibly happy.

His brain seemingly unable to maintain the feeling of elation and joy for too long, Castiel glanced down at his phone. 

_4:58pm._

“You’d...better head back,” Castiel said, lifting his head to watch the band walk off stage and for the crew to run on to begin setting up for the next act. Around them, people were migrating off to other shows or gathering in chattering groups. “Kevin wanted you back for five o’clock. You’ll be late.”

“Right,” Dean sighed, shaking his head and glancing off towards the path leading back to the vendor area. Castiel watched his face, his stomach sunken towards his middle, realizing that the not-date was over and...likely he wouldn’t see Dean again.

“It’s…” _Been nice,_ he was tempted to say, but instead he trailed off, licking his lips. It had been so nice. Very, very nice. The weekend he’d been dreading had ended up being more fun than he’d had in...years, likely. “Good luck with the rest of the day,” he said instead, “at, um, your booth. A-And I hope your merchandising changes at the store go well—”

What the hell was he talking about? Sales? Work?

Dean tilted his head a bit. “Thanks?”

Castiel began to walk backwards a bit, waving uncomfortably, his body jolting into fight or flight mode as he felt the comfortable vibe between them shift and disappear. He needed to retreat before he made a bigger fool of himself, or worse, tried to ask Dean if he wanted to see him again when clearly, what existed between them was just a weekend fling, if that.

“You, uh, leaving the festival soon?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded, jumping a bit when he walked backwards into someone, a girl who shot him a dirty look. “Y-Yes. If Naomi is still talking to me, she might try to rangle me to go see Celine Dion—”

“You might see Sam there,” Dean snorted. “He loves her… Wait, are you fighting with Naomi?”

“No,” Castiel lied. “I… We’ll likely be leaving soon, regardless. Work tomorrow and such…”

They stared at each other and then Castiel waved again. “Goodbye, Dean.”

He made to turn when Dean didn’t say anything and simply nodded, but then Dean’s voice called out to him.

“You know, Tool is playing a show in Kansas City next weekend,” Dean pointed out, shrugging, sliding his hands into his pockets, the Garbage shirt stretching over his chest. “I was gonna ask Charlie to come but since you didn’t get to see them… Dunno. Think about it. Let me know if you’re free or whatever.”

Castiel stared, blinking and tilting his head a bit, unsure what to say. Was...Dean inviting him to a concert? He hadn’t really _asked_ anything explicitly, but…

“Sure, I’ll let you know,” Castiel said slowly, instead of screaming “ _YES!_ ”

Dean smirked, tugging his hand from his pocket to wave vaguely in the air. “Yeah, send me a carrier pigeon.”

God, he was being so stupid. Wrangling up courage, Castiel blurted out, “Are you asking me to see Tool with you?”

Dean’s face split into a grin and his eyes pinched at the corners in amusement. “Depends. Are you saying you’d come with me?”

While he didn’t scream it, Castiel did nod his head once sharply and replied flatly, “Yes.”

“Cool,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “It’s settled then. You and me, Tool. Kansas City. I’ll have to double check, but I think it starts at eight on Friday. I’ll drive.”

“In your car?” Castiel asked, remembering the beautiful, shining muscle car with the vintage leather interior that Dean had said he’d maintained for all these years. 

“Well,” Dean snorted, “I was gonna pick you up in a horse and buggy but I guess the horses wouldn’t do so great in I-70 traffic, so maybe I’ll bring the Impala instead.”

Right. What a stupid question. Castiel felt his cheeks heat up, and wondered vaguely if he’d forgotten to put sunscreen on that morning or if being flushed with embarrassment was just a thing he’d have to get used to in front of Dean. “Right, of course.”

He watched Dean’s tongue dart out to wet his lips and quickly Castiel realised he'd stopped walking backwards… Waiting. Waiting for something.

“I’m going to need to know where you live,” Dean said with an amused purse of his lips. “I mean, I’ve walked there, but it’d be easier if you just texted me the address.”

Castiel could have acted much cooler, but instead, as his heart did backflips and grew legs so it could tap dance in his chest, he blurted out dumbly, “I need your number.”

Dean’s brows rose on his forehead and he grinned. “Wow, so forward.”

Oh no. Back pedal. “Un... Unless you simply want me to call your store, that’s fine too. I can leave the address with Kevin o-or one of your other—”

But Dean was grinning wide and walking over, tugging his phone out of his pocket. “Okay, confirmed. I’m a genius _and_ you’re gullible. Come here, you. Gimme your digits and we’ll plan this right.”

Glad that Dean was walking over because his own legs had forgotten how to function, Castiel pulled out his phone too, and began reciting his number.


	5. Can't Fight the Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Kradarua for beta'ing this chapter!!
> 
> Be twinkle toes like Cas and jam to this chapter's song: [Can't Fight the Moonlight - LeAnn Rimes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bx3s99FNXzI)

Naomi seemed to forgive Castiel readily enough for leaving the Jewel show a blasphemous fifteen minutes early, but when it came to helping him pick out an outfit for the upcoming Tool show, she was suspiciously too busy. 

Castiel felt ridiculously lost as he put on some casual blue khakis and a black sweater, wondering if he was appropriately dressed. Dean had seen him in t-shirts and jeans, both times sweaty and probably extremely unappealing, so Castiel dug around in his dresser and pulled out a pair of pants he hadn’t worn since Naomi’s work gala a few years ago. She’d bought him clothing, not thinking him trustworthy enough to dress himself, especially since she’d wanted him to _match_ her cocktail dress. Castiel had been fine with that; the less he had to buy on his own, the better. 

He felt like he looked presentable (and not sweaty, so that was certainly a plus.) Other than his ridiculously messy hair that he had no control over, he looked alright. 

Of course, Dean pulled out in front of his building in the sexiest car known to man, in black sunglasses and a leather jacket, wearing his wallet on a silver chain and sporting blue jeans. 

“I know seeing Tool in person is a religious experience, but I didn’t get the memo about dressing in Sunday’s best,” Dean had said with a grin before he’d walked around the car to not only open the door for Castiel, but bop him on the chin with his knuckle. It wasn't a date night kiss, but it also wasn't a bro-fist, so Castiel considered that a win.

The Impala’s roar was impressive as they sped past the other cars on the highway. The traffic on this Friday night was minimal, so they reached the venue early enough to get a good view of the stage. Dean had used that time to buy Castiel a drink—why was he always buying him drinks? Castiel made a mental note to buy him something—and talked non-stop about his store. Apparently, Winchester Books and Music was separating their books into genres and had begun selling fidget spinners at the cash register by request of Kevin and Charlie—one of the many tidbits Dean shared.

If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d say Dean was nervous.

But nervous or not, he was fucking pretty, so Castiel drank his beer and nodded occasionally, listening intently to how stupid Dean found fidget spinners until curiosity got the better of them and they began to explore. 

The club was a medium-sized venue with two bars on either side and a large main stage bracketed by two railed-off seating areas. The walls behind the bars were made of glass, but otherwise, they were painted black and speckled with glow-in-the-dark neon paint. All Castiel had to do was ask what strange shapes were coming out of the walls before Dean’s fingers were linked in his and he was being tugged towards them. As the opening band began to play, Castiel and Dean enjoyed walking up to the odd statues of all sorts of ghosts and ghouls, laughing at some of the sillier ones—there was a werewolf wearing spiral sunglasses and a feral looking pig with a pink feather boa around its neck.

The hallway to the bathrooms was decked in vintage movie posters that Dean snapped pictures of to show Sam, and there was one life-sized statue of a zombified Jessica Rabbit that had scared the bejesus out of Castiel upon first sight. To his delight, instead of letting him bask in humiliation, Dean had simply laughed and insisted they take a selfie with it. 

Castiel had been in about four selfies his entire life, but he had to say; he looked decent in this one. It was hard to look bad when Dean’s grinning face was half-pressed to his; the magenta strobe lights were forgiving and an undead Jessica Rabbit leaned over their shoulder, looking hungry for brains.

After the fun self-guided tour of the venue, they returned to their spot in front of the stage to enjoy the tail end of the opening band. By the time the lead singer of Tool appeared, Castiel was gently buzzed and wondering how the evening had already turned out to be quite wonderful. Sure, Dean hadn’t kissed him or anything (yet), but the feeling of ease between them was quite lovely and uncomplicated, nothing like what Castiel had been concerned about. He had spent the entire workday worried that they wouldn’t have anything to talk about, or that he would do something stupid to make Dean regret inviting him out, but so far he was in the clear.

Castiel didn’t know much about Tool, only that they had been quite popular when he was a teenager, but he could sing along to the well-known songs and it was endlessly amusing to see a cheerful, upbeat Dean sing along to every lyric like he’d written them himself. That carried Castiel through the show to some degree, but what really sealed the deal for him was Dean’s arm around his shoulders. It’d slipped there at some point, the leather pressed to the warm skin of the nape of his neck, and really, that’s all it had taken to keep Castiel smiling into the top of his drink the whole night. 

When the show wrapped up, the crowd cheered, roaring with rambunctious energy, and Castiel clapped along with Dean, though in his chest his heart sunk. It marked the beginning of the end of their evening.

Once the stage was empty and the bar lights turned on, they filed out of the club with the horde of other attendees, and the fact that Dean’s fingers were still linked with his so that they “wouldn’t lose each other” was the only consolation. 

Of course, Dean didn’t lose Castiel on the way out and he continued to not lose him all the way back to the Impala.

“Man,” Dean said with a shake of his head, his chin tipping back as he gazed at the sky between the skyscrapers, “Tool was damn good. Who knew, not only would I not miss them at the festival, but I’d watch ‘em twice in one week. What a fuckin’ show. Did you have a good time?”

 _Kiss me_ , Castiel thought, looking over at Dean and nodding. After clearing his throat, Castiel replied, “Yes. I...had quite a lot of fun.”

Dean grinned at him, his nose crinkling. “Dude, why do you say everything like it hurts you to speak. What, do you not have fun often?”

“No,” Castiel replied quickly, his eyes widening a bit. “N-No, I had a lot of fun. I, um, sincerely had quite a good time. The werewolf wearing sunglasses was quite the highlight.”

Dean chuckled, his breath coming out in curly clouds from his mouth. “Don’t have fun often?”

Why did people always say that?! Castiel had _fun_. He knew how to have fun. He owned video games—granted, they were the kind where he farmed crops and raised cows, or were the kind where he did a lot of parkour and explored old timey Italy, but they were still riveting in their own way. 

“Not often,” Castiel said, realising he did not, in fact, have much fun. “Not really. The same routine admittedly gets tiresome after some time. Sleep, wake up, walk Jack, work, eat, watch the news, fall asleep on the couch…”

“Oh Jesus,” Dean chortled, raising his hand to his mouth so he could laugh at Castiel’s pathetic life in semi-private. “Well, then I can’t in good faith end the night here. You, uh, wanna explore Kansas City a bit? It’s still kinda early—” It was nearly midnight, three hours past Castiel’s usual fall-asleep-on-the-couch-time. “—that is, if you want—”

“I want,” Castiel said abruptly, turning towards Dean a bit, trying not to look as eager as he felt. “I rarely ever make it out to the city.”

“I gotta drive," Dean said, "but we could get a non-alcoholic drink somewhere? Come on, buy you a Coke?”

Pepsi was better, but Castiel nodded, feeling a tingle of glee in his stomach when Dean gave their linked hands a few encouraging pumps. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Dean’s lips twisted into a crooked little pout. “You a walk-along-the-water kind of dude or a stand-beside-a-hot-dog-stand kind of dude?”

Energized by the fact that this hot, nice guy wanted to spend _more_ time with him, Castiel tilted his head and said, “Both.”

He was rewarded with a wink and a nudge to the shoulder as they turned down a quiet side-street. “A challenge, I dig it. Let’s hit up the Kansas river and hunt down some street meat we’ll regret eating later. Sodas on me.”

* * *

Dean did dig challenges, apparently, and was very good at them. In less than twenty minutes, he’d navigated them towards the waterfront, put two sodas—one Coke and one Pepsi, after Castiel had confessed his affinity for it—into their hands, and procured two hotdogs on fluffy buns. They leaned on the railing by the river, cool air on their faces from the water, a good distance away from the crowds of drunk people spilling mustard, diced onions, and ketchup all over the ground around the hotdog stand.

“So how did you meet Charlie?” Castiel asked after licking a dollop of ketchup off his finger, trying to figure out a more efficient way of holding the bun without it completely falling apart.

Dean was having the same struggle with his overstuffed hotdog, alternating it between his hands. As he licked mustard off the bun, he said with his mouth full, “P.E. Sixth grade. Dodgeball. It was her versus me, last teens standing.”

With delicious mystery meat steaming in front of his lips, Castiel asked, “That’s quite the battle. Who won?”

Swallowing, Dean snorted and wiped at his mouth with a scrunched up napkin. “Oh, she sent me to the nurse’s office. Threw a ball at my face and reminded me why braces suck so much.”

Disbelieving, Castiel found himself smiling at Dean's perfectly straight teeth. “You had braces?”

Picking bread off his bun and throwing a piece into his mouth, Dean grinned as he chewed. “I know you think I’m perfect, Cas—and you’d only be _a little_ wrong—but I have to have _some_ flaws.” He nudged Castiel with his arm as he leaned down to pick up his Coke from the cement ledge under the railing. “Help me out here. What about you? Anything embarrassing?”

With a wry scowl out at the water, Castiel bit into his hotdog and said thickly, “Other than literally everything?”

But to his delight, instead of teasing him, Dean turned to face him and leaned his hip on the rail, sipping from his can with a smirk. “Come on. You’re a ten, buddy. Gimme something juicy. Spill.”

“I was a hundred pounds soaking wet until I was like twenty-one?” Castiel offered, unsure what else to say. He couldn’t very well tell Dean about his awkward adolescence; it was all bacne, angst, and a brief stint with frosted tips. 

“That’s it?” Dean asked, his voice high and raspy in skepticism. “Please; I was skinny like a weed until I figured I might actually have a bicep or two if I lifted something heavier than a joint.”

Wracking his brain for something relatively harmless that would amuse Dean, Castiel started at the Jackson Pollock of mustard and ketchup on his half-eaten hotdog and then murmured, “I was...top in dance class? Did a routine to _'Can't Fight the Moonlight'_ by LeAnn Rimes in front of my entire tenth grade glass. It's one of those trauma-reliving moments that keeps me up at three AM when I can't sleep.”

Entirely justified, Dean nearly choked around his mouthful of bun and meat, and when he was done laughing and gasping in air, he choked out, “Oh, _God,_ that's _rough_. That's so rough. But I 100% believe that, twinkle toes. As embarrassing as that probably was, you probably did Coyote Ugly proud.”

Castiel rolled his eyes to appear nonchalant, but his heart swelled a few sizes in pride. He wasn’t good at talking about his embarrassing moments, much less any accomplishments, but he was even worse at taking compliments.

Thankfully, Dean went on, slurping on the edge of the Coke can. “I was kinda crap in school— focused more on girls and fixing old electronics in my parents’ basement than calculus or whatever. Sam was always the nerdy one.”

Searching his catalogue of things Dean had told him in passing—Dean always seemed to say things in passing and never lingered—Castiel tilted his head and tried, “He’s...a lawyer?”

Taking another big bite out of his hotdog, Dean wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, pausing to lick mustard off his skin. Once he swallowed, he said thickly, “Yup. Just getting started in his career but I think he’s gonna be awesome.”

Shifting on his feet, Castiel picked at his hotdog bun, feeling pressure to fill in the silence that followed. After clearing his throat, he asked, “Did he make it back to California all right after the festival?”

“Oh yeah, he loves flying. It fucking terrifies me, but, well…”

“So you don't visit him often?” 

Castiel winced immediately, understanding he may have sounded a wee bit judgemental. He opened his mouth to redact his question, but Dean answered with a chuckle. 

“Nah, I went out to Cali once, but the turbulence was so bad I threw up for like two hours after the flight and couldn’t really drink that night. Not that it mattered, we didn’t go out or anything. Charlie, Sam, and I ended up playing D&D with a couple of his college friends.”

It was strange. Castiel was asking awkward questions and yet...Dean simply seemed happy to answer, to continue to talk to him. Perhaps he felt cornered because they were so far from Lawrence and didn’t want to make it awkward.

“Does he visit you here often?” Castiel asked, noticing that Dean seemed to perk up the most when discussing his brother.

Or...not. Dean lowered his eyes and the food in his hands, setting his forearms down on the railing. “Uh...nah.” Castiel watched Dean swallow, then glance over and continue, “He and my dad got into it back when he went off to school. Our mom had just died and Dad wasn’t really dealing with it well so he and Sam… Anyway, they don't get along.”

Not feeling very hungry anymore, his stomach tingling nervously at Dean’s diverted gaze, Castiel murmured, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Like I told you before,” Dean replied quietly, jumping a bit after a group of drunk people down the walkway by the hotdog stand whooped and hollered. “There ain’t no such thing as the Brady Bunch. We all got our shit.”

Thinking about his own terrible mother, his sheltered upbringing, and a lonely childhood bouncing from home to home, Castiel thought, _You have no idea, Winchester._

“Does your father live in Kansas?” he asked, before he could blurt out something depressing about his own childhood as he had a habit of doing. Dean had proven so far that he didn’t scare easily, but still…if he could hold back the weird for a little longer as much as he could, maybe Dean would want to see him again.

“Yup.” Dean sipped on his coke.

“Do you live with him?”

“Nah, I live in my own place,” Dean replied, lifting his head and returning his gaze to Castiel’s face as he picked up the red and white checkered carton hugging the bottom of his half-eaten hotdog.

“That’s right,” Castiel agreed, his voice thick as he pushed the last of his food into his mouth and chewed inside his cheek. “You just moved to the area, by Heaven, you said.”

Dean smirked, his tongue darting out to swipe a green olive that was sliding down his bun into his mouth. “You _were_ listening.”

Castiel allowed himself to smile and shrugged, buying himself a moment of privacy to hide his rosy cheeks as he leaned down to pick up his Pepsi. “Do _you_ get along with your father?”

He wasn’t looking at Dean, taking a moment to tip his head back and enjoy the burn of soda down his throat, but Dean’s voice was a bit flatter when he replied, “Sometimes. It’s complicated. He’s, uh, a challenge most days, though.”

The muscle in Dean’s jaw was clenching and unclenching when Castiel looked over, and the butt-end of his hotdog was between his fingers now, uneaten.

Feeling as if he’d asked something too personal, Castiel rasped, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I’m sure you’re learning this about me, but I don't often know the right thing to say. Workplace hazard of...well, my workplace.”

Dean raised a brow, glancing side-long at him. “Being at home?”

Wincing, Castiel admitted, “Yes. The social interaction is minimal. There’s a reason most of my job is data input. I did employee relations for about a month at the beginning of my career before my boss put a swift end to that.”

But Dean just shrugged a shoulder and threw the end of the hotdog into his mouth, chewing as he set his empty soda can down by his feet. Before Castiel could try to change the subject—oh God, what could he talk about that wasn’t a huge bummer—Dean leaned on the railing again, wiping at his fingers with a scrunched napkin. “Nah, nah, it’s okay. About my dad; he’s...kind of a hard-ass. He used to be cool growing up—not so involved as a dad, but still cool. Then my mom died and left the family business to me and he turned into, like, a real fuckin’ drill sergent. Maybe he was pissed she didn’t leave the store to him. Dunno. Anyway, I dropped out of college to take over my mom’s store, and uh, then my dad got sick a few years later…”

“I’m very sorry, Dean.” He kept saying it, but he kept meaning it.

Shoving the napkin in his coat pocket, Dean stared out at a party boat that was cruising slowly over the water towards the marina. Castiel merely watched the twinkle of the lights reflected in Dean’s eyes. 

“The sicker he got,” Dean went on, “the harder he was on me, y’know? I’m the only kid he has around now. I visit, I pay the bills, and I...am _totally_ dragging down the evening.”

Castiel blinked, but Dean looked over and winked, triggering a quiet laugh that they both shared. Tension diffused.

Feeling a bit of courage inspired by the fond way Dean was eyeing him, Castiel turned his body towards his date. Quietly, and he hoped with kindness in his voice, he insisted, “You are _not_ dragging down the evening. I'm enjoying our talks and this time together. It’s quite nice to simply listen. It’s okay. Is your father...alive?

Dean waved a hand and snorted. “Oh, yeah! He’s hanging in there. What about you? You, uh, talk to that mom of yours?”

Swirling the dregs of Pepsi in the bottom of the can, Castiel’s brows rose. “The ‘real peach’?”

Dean’s grin was a reward for remembering his earlier joke. “That’s the one.”

They stared at each other. Castiel didn’t feel the confidence Dean did about discussing his family, if he could even call his mother ‘family’. Trying to sound even, though he felt a bit choked, Castiel admitted quietly, ”I haven’t spoken to her in years.”

He wanted to hold Dean’s gaze, but he _couldn’t_ look into his eyes and potentially see disgust or dislike. When it came to Castiel’s mother, he hadn’t ever felt many emotions other than negative ones. She’d given him a shelter and basic necessities, and hadn’t ever laid a finger on him, but she’d treated him like a burden and spent most of their time together reminding him that he hadn’t lived up to her expectations.

The red and white carton stained in ketchup and mustard, the one Dean had set down on the ground for safe keeping, got the brunt of Castiel’s stare as he wracked his brain for a new topic. He felt frozen. He was thirty-four years old, but the way his mother’s memory made him feel brought him right back to being a helpless, hopeless kid. 

Dean’s finger was warm when he stepped into Castiel’s space and pulled gently at his chin so their eyes met again. 

“No worries, dude,” Dean murmured, winking and flashing Castiel a smile. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Feeling the need to say something because Dean had shared so much, Castiel managed, “She’s unkind.”

Dean’s green eyes were pinched a bit when he smiled tightly, the side of his face still twinkling with the lights from the party cruise. “You don't gotta talk about it. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. Man, I’m pretty shit at this.”

Dean’s finger was still under his chin, but the touch was soft and his thumb was drawing soft patterns into his jawline. Castiel wondered if he should’ve shaved all the way down so that his skin was smoother to the touch. Damn. “Pardon me? Pretty shit at what?”

When Castiel said ‘shit’, Dean grinned a little and chuckled, “At dating dudes.”

Trying to sound casual and instead sounding a bit constipated, Castiel asked, “You date a lot of...dudes?”

Maybe Dean didn’t mind the shadow of stubble, because he was eyeing Castiel’s face with a pleased twinkle. “Nah.”

This close up he could count the freckles over Dean’s nose. “You had told me this was all very...recent for you?”

A group of men walked by, howling with laughter at some joke or another, and Dean let his hand drop, turning back to the railing, licking at his lips and glancing between the group and Castiel’s face. “Yeah. Coupla years, maybe a bit less. You?”

Mirroring Dean, Castiel rested his forearms on the railing, but he was pleased that Dean was closer, their arms and shoulders bumping. “Recent-ish. More than a couple of years. I was twenty five when I came out for the first time to Naomi, if that’s any kind of measurement.”

Dean’s laughter tugged his gaze sideways. “Wow,” Dean chuckled disbelievingly, his eyes a bit wide. “Of all the people to come out to, you chose _Naomi?”_

Scowling, Castiel rolled his eyes. “She’s more supportive than you think.”

“So you’ve been out for a while?” Dean asked, looking disappointed somehow, his brows twitching together.

“No, no,” Castiel said immediately with an almost bittersweet laugh. “After I said it out loud to her, I went right back into denial. I felt terrorized that I’d said it out loud, and pretended it never happened. I’ve only been openly out for the last few years, and there are people who still don’t know. For example, I only _just_ told Hannah after the festival, and only told Uriel during. My experiences have been...limited. Few and far between. Being openly gay still all feels very new and very overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming, hah. Yeah, that’s...a way to put it,” Dean admitted, nodding and tilting his head a bit out at the river. “I, uh, kinda felt like I was living this fake life before I came out. Tried too hard to be someone I wasn't; felt like I was lying to everyone, every minute of every day.”

Nothing had resonated so much with him as Dean’s words. With his own nod, Castiel admitted, “When I first told Naomi, I cried. It wasn’t what YouTube or the forums or the movies said it was going to be like. Everyone said it was supposed to be freeing, but I felt nothing but terror for a very long time.”

“Same!” Dean exclaimed, his eyes and mouth wide, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile. “Made out with my best friend at my 30th birthday party and bawled like a baby.” 

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, man. It was fuckin' horrible. I tried to blame it on tequila but I was too busy drunk bawling in front of my brother and Charlie to really sell it like some stupid mistake.”

Despite confessing some arguably traumatizing moments in their journeys, Castiel and Dean stared at each other in the space made by their shoulders pressed together. Their mouths curled into thin smiles, and like a spark made by the tension snapped in half between them, they laughed.

Still riding the tail end of their laughter, Castiel admitted with fluttering butterflies in his stomach, “I’m…’pretty shit’ at this, too, if it makes you feel better. But I don’t think this, this, uh, date is pretty shit. I’m having a very good time... With you.”

He’d stumbled over every word, but instead of rolling his eyes and calling him an awkward nerd as expected, Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to Castiel’s.

Their smiles melted together as they inhaled, mouths slotted into place like destined puzzle pieces before they exhaled together, their breath warm on each other's skin.

Thankfully, Dean pulled away before Castiel could do something embarrassing like whimper happily. When he put an inch between them, Dean murmured in a puff of air, “Thanks.”

“I don’t go on dates with many men either,” Castiel whispered, eyes darting up from Dean’s lips to his twinkling, amused eyes.

“That’s fine.” Dean’s eyes went crinkly in the corners—God, he was pretty. “I only need you to go on dates with me, so no problemo, Cas.”

Oh… Confirmed. They were certainly on a date. No denying it now. 

Feeling overwhelmed, but trying to hide it, Castiel cleared his throat. “You...want to do this again?”

Dean reeled back a bit, raising a brow. “Do you not? ‘Cause that’s gonna make this 45 minute ride back home pretty freakin' awkward.”

Desperate not to ruin the moment, Castiel found his hand reaching out to grasp at the front of Dean’s shirt, his fingers curling around the leather lapels of his jacket. “No! No, I do. I really do.”

Okay, maybe he sounded a _little_ desperate. 

Dean didn’t seem to care. He reached up and slid his hand around Castiel’s neck, setting his palm at his nape and dragging his fingers through the curls of hair there. “Cool,” he muttered, smiling. “I'm gonna kiss you again then.”

With his eyes sliding shut as Dean leaned in, Castiel muttered, “Cool.”


	6. A Turn of Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kradarua for betaing this chapter. I have never seen someone so personally offended by breakfast salad, but her outrage made me laugh-cry, so it was worth it. xDD

“Salad dressing on the side, I am not joking. The salad dressing goes on the side or I am sending it back,” Naomi said sharply to the young woman taking their order. She even jabbed her finger to make a point, which was completely unnecessary. 

“Of course, ma’am,” the waitress said with a tight smile, tapping her pen on her notepad. “It’ll be on the side. I can take your menus.”

Naomi widened her eyes at Castiel as if to say ‘ _yeah, right_ ’, and snapped her menu closed, passing it over to the woman. “It had better be. Last time we came here, it was _not_ on the side despite very clear, very simple instructions—”

“Thank you so much,” Castiel interrupted, pursing his lips in an apologetic smile as he passed over his menu as well, hoping the girl would infer ‘ _oh God, I’m so sorry, please don’t spit in our food’_ from his expression.

The girl seemed to understand him, shooting him a soft smile in return as she walked away with their order and menus, back to the kitchen where she’d no doubt tell the kitchen staff about the raging bitch at table six.

“So nice to finally get you out to breakfast,” Naomi said in a clipped tone that could only mean danger. “You’ve been incredibly unreachable these days.”

Castiel sat back in the booth, licking at his lips and glancing out the window at the windy day, blowing out a stream of air from his lips as he wished he was one of the crinkly, red leaves flapping in the wind, away from Naomi’s wrath.

“I’ve been preoccupied,” Castiel admitted, returning his gaze to his friend’s piercing one across the table. “Busy. How’s everything at your office? Has your boss said anything about that project you’ve been—”

“ _Preoccupied_ ,” Naomi said bluntly, tilting her head a bit and crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned her elbows down on the table. “Having sex with Dean, you mean.”

Oh, boy. There she went. 

“No,” Castiel said carefully, fingering the edge of his napkin and folding it over into a neat triangle. “I—We haven’t been—" Blowjobs and handies counted as sex, right? "Well, not a lot. It’s—Yes, I have been seeing him often the last few weeks.”

“God,” Naomi grunted under her breath, flicking bangs from her eyes and reaching over to pour herself some coffee from the carafe, “how much sex can someone have that it makes them physically incapable of answering their phones?”

Castiel’s fork clinked against his plate as he fiddled with it, trying to line it up perfectly with the edge of his napkin. Swallowing, he explained, “He only gets the weekends and evenings off, as do I, so our spare time lines up. I do not understand the third degree, Naomi. I’ve...I’ve only been seeing him for a few weeks, and I’m…”

Naomi raised her brows expectantly over the edge of her cup. 

Castiel glanced up at her from his fork and breathed, “I’m happy, so why are you so upset?”

His friend’s slurp was louder than she’d normally do, but eventually she took a large gulp and winced. Castiel sat in silence until she swallowed and pressed a napkin to her mouth.

“I have no concerns about you being happy. Jesus, Castiel. You’re making me sound like a real bitch,” Naomi scoffed, gesturing at him with her cup. “But I will say it’s in poor taste to give your friends the shaft just because a pair of biceps on legs gives you the time of day.”

“He’s not a pair of biceps on legs, Naomi,” Castiel insisted, feeling a jolt of indignation in his chest. “He’s a person, and he’s kind and funny—”

“Hmm,” Naomi hummed conversationally, her eyes flickering to the ceiling. “Yes, right. A charmer, I’m sure. Nice of him to finally extend an olive branch to you, though; wait, _you_ had to ask _him_ for his number, didn’t you?”

Fuck. Her. “Well, yes, I asked, but he—”

Naomi raised a hand, silencing him. “You know I am only being protective, don’t you? I just don’t want you to be taken advantage of. When he decides he’s done fucking you in every room of your apartment, because—” she added with a cold little smile and wrinkle of her nose, “—he hasn’t invited you over or let you step foot in his store, or see his friends—”

Castiel bristled. He fucking hated her for a moment because she was partially correct. “I...work at home, Naomi! I have all day to clean up for him to come over, while he works. He says his place is a mess and—”

But Naomi powered on, repeating, “ _When he decides he’s done fucking you in every room of your apartment,_ he’ll ghost you and then I’ll have to pick up the pieces while you cry yourself into despair. It’s just hard to watch.”

She was just concerned. She was worried about him. She just didn’t want him to get hurt. I _totally appreciate the concern_ , he told himself while his knuckles went white around his fork and he dug four holes into his napkin with it. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Castiel murmured, dropping the fork before he threw it across the restaurant—the overpriced fancy brunch joint at the bottom of Naomi’s corporate office downtown, the one she insisted is the best, despite her snippy attitude with the staff.

“Right,” Naomi agreed, setting down her mug with a _clack_ on the hardwood table. “Whatever you want. What else is new with you, other than the new toy?”

Choosing to ignore the dig, Castiel licked at his lips again, rubbing his palm over his mouth so he wouldn’t ball it into a fist. “Well, I bought a new TV, and replaced the rug in the living room. Oh, and Jack knows how to play dead now.”

“Oh, good,” Naomi said lightly, her brows jumping up under her bangs again. “Is he making any headway on not pissing on the floor and eating your belongings?”

After taking a moment to stare at the spinning ceiling fan over their heads for a few turns, Castiel murmured, “No, he’s not. Hence why I’ve had to replace the carpet. He’s a puppy, Naomi. He’s still learning.”

“Well, congratulations on teaching him tricks, anyway.”

“Hannah is coming to visit again,” Castiel offered, hoping to divert the topic away from Dean. Or Jack. Or anything Naomi could tear apart.

“Again?” Naomi asked a bit shrilly, her mouth dropping open before coffee could make it there first. “Didn’t you just get rid of her only two weeks ago?”

Indignantly, Castiel retorted, “I didn’t just ‘get rid of her’. She was hardly there the entire wedding weekend. And...I enjoyed her company. She’s returning next weekend for a visit. I was hoping to throw a dinner for her, Naomi. She sounded enthused at the idea and as a matter of fact, she’s asked if you and Uriel could come, too.”

Naomi looked as surprised as Castiel had felt when Hannah made the initial suggestions. “What…? Why would she want _that_?”

 _Beats me_ , Castiel thought, but answered instead, “She enjoyed the weekend we all had together at the festival. She said she likes you.”

Again, Naomi just gaped before finally choking out, “But _why?”_

Sighing, Castiel rested his elbows on the table and crossed his arms. With a scowl, he replied, “She’s a very positive person, Naomi. Hannah sees the good in people, even people who are hard to deal with—”

“Ouch.”

“—and she seemed thrilled at the idea of another get-together. Please, just come.”

Flapping her napkin out to the side and sliding it onto her lap, Naomi looked sufficiently uncomfortable, but she muttered, “Yes, fine. I’ll come.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, smiling softly at her.

With a grumpy glance up at him, Naomi winced. “Does Uriel have to come?”

“Yes,” Castiel groaned, his smile dropping off his face onto his plate. “Yes, Naomi, Uriel has to come.”

“Ugh,” Naomi said, sticking out her tongue, “Well, what about _Dean_ —”

At least she was using his name this time; they were making progress. 

“Spending time with his brother. Sam is in town again.”

“Pity,” she sniffed, just as her salad arrived—dressing on the side.

Castiel sat back as the nice waitress smiled at him and slid his eggs benedict in front of him. When she walked away, he tucked his napkin onto his lap and leaned over, whispering to Naomi, “Be nice.”

As she dumped all of the dressing onto her salad and tapped the bottom of the tiny white glass, Naomi smiled tightly at him and whispered back, “Never.”

* * *

“How’s the store?”

Dean sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair, licking at his lips and trying to push down the rising knot of nerves in his stomach. He already felt nauseous from his meds and the sterile smell of hospital, he didn’t need anxiety to contribute anymore bad vibes. 

His shoulders shrugged, his hands clapped together, and he smiled at his dad, trying to act casual.

“Great,” Dean replied. “Sales are good. Kev’s been good about helping out with the re-merch and Charlie even stopped by after work to help us move stuff around.”

John Winchester exhaled shakily, but also managed to roll his eyes, pulling off the super-sick but also super-annoyed look with ease. He shifted his head, the grown out salt-and-pepper scruff scratching against the dry cotton of his hospital pillow.

“Re-merch, what a fuckin’ joke,” John rasped, licking at his dry lips.

The knot of anxiety tightened and Dean kept smiling, scratching at his cheek. “It’s really fine, Dad. We just moved those old bins from the front to the back, and put up some shelves for the books and games, and then shifted the table and chairs in the middle so we could—”

“Your mother is rolling in her grave,” John grunted, flexing his thin hand where his IV no doubt itched.

Dean swallowed, exhaling slowly through his nose. “I think she’d really like it, Dad. Sam liked it when he stopped by—”

Immediately, dark brown eyes shot up, glaring at Dean. “Your brother was here? In Kansas?”

A chill shuddered down Dean’s straight spine and he knew he was gaping for a few moments before he admitted with a weak laugh, “Well, sure, Dad. He helped Kev and Charlie and I at the festival. You know, the retro music festival we took the shop to ‘bout a month back? It was awesome. Made a bunch of t-shirt and vinyl sales—”

“What a disappointment,” John went on, staring angrily at Dean, as if this—the store, and Sam, and his disease, and the hospital—was all his fault. “I’m on my fucking deathbed and my own son can’t even come see me.”

 _I’m here,_ Dean thought. _I’m right here_. But of course, John wasn’t preoccupied with Dean, he was preoccupied with Sam, as always. 

“Don’t...take it so hard, Dad. A-And you’re not on your deathbed. You’ll get better, it just takes time,” Dean said, pulling his chair closer to his dad’s bed, careful not to knock an IV or a heart monitor or anything. His dad would flip. Dean wanted to reach out and place a hand on his Dad’s, offer some kind of comfort, but he knew it would just make him angrier. Comforting touches meant he was weak in his eyes, and even lying on his side, attached to every machine the hospital had in their inventory, John Winchester refused to look weak.

“Cut the shit, Dean,” John growled, though his blinking was slow; he was getting tired. 

“Sam will come to see you,” Dean urged. “He’s just...still angry, y’know?” _And even if he did come, you two would just fight anyway._

“Yeah, he’ll come see me” John breathed, the bags under his eyes deep and dark, “when I’m on my back in a coffin.”

Dean ran his hand over his mouth and ducked his head, staring at the floor. “He’s visiting this weekend. Maybe I… He’ll come visit, okay?”

“I didn’t raise you to be no liar, son.”

Dean raised his head, watching his dad’s face, before he smiled tightly and agreed, “No, sir.”

John exhaled in a rattle and coughed. After a struggle to catch his breath—Dean raised himself out of his seat to help him slide an oxygen mask over his mouth—he raised his eyebrows and wheezed, “You have fun at the festival, son?”

Sometimes… _Sometimes_ John was nice. This was one of those moments. With a small shrug and a nod, Dean grinned softly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” John murmured, his breath fogging up the mask. Despite struggling to breathe properly—a side effect of his medication—John’s lips twitched into a smile and he recalled, “Went to a few of those with your mom back in the day. Even took you to one when you were ‘bout the size of a football. She s-strapped you to her chest, put some earmuffs on you and went to watch Led Zeppelin anyway.”

“She was always too cool for us,” Dean chuckled, settling his chin on his hand, propping his elbows on his knees. 

“Mmm,” John hummed, grunting in pain as he rolled onto his back, his hands shaking as he rested them on his middle. 

Dean half-stood again to help, but John sent him a glare that had him sitting back down just as quick. 

“You meet any girls to y-your taste at the festival, Dean?”

Sitting up straight again, his stomach aching, Dean shook his head and said clearly, “No. Was busy workin’—”

John’s eyes closed. “Gotta get you a girl I can meet before I die in this stupid bed.”

It felt like every minute of every day, Dean wanted to tell his father that he’d never bring a girl for him to meet. He wanted so desperately to tell him the truth, to tell him about who he really was...but John would disown him. His dad was the only person who could truly break him into a million fucking pieces. Dean could handle rejection from other people, at least, but he wouldn’t be able to recover if his dad told him to walk out the door and never come back. 

He wasn’t Sam.

“Yeah, one day,” Dean said quietly, his fingers coming together, his nails tugging at a hangnail on his thumb. “I’ll work on it.”

* * *

“When I said make yourself busy and put together a caesar, I didn’t mean no drink,” Uriel said to Naomi, stopping dead at the threshold of the kitchen in Castiel’s apartment. He stared at Naomi, who sipped on a tall glass of tomato juice and other mystery ingredients, her manicured fingers holding aside the fancy pickled and speared garnishes.

“I did make a caesar,” Naomi supplied cooly, licking at the chucky pepper rimmer on the outside of the glass and eyeing Jack, who was sitting at her feet and drooling in hopes that she’d drop one of her garnishes. “It just has tequila instead of croutons.”

Uriel looked ready to open the window on the other side of the kitchen table they’d moved into the living room—Castiel’s kitchen wasn’t nearly large enough for four people to eat comfortably in—and jump out into the street. He scowled and sauntered over to the table, dropping a charcuterie board down in front of Naomi.

“ _That_ is a Bloody Mary,” Uriel countered, pointing and raising his dark eyebrows at her. “You can pour as much clam water and pickle juice as you want in there, girl, but it’s a damn Bloody Mary.”

“Tell that to my Canadian cousin, Esper,” Naomi replied simply, glancing up at him with narrowed eyes. “The only thing he calls a Bloody Mary is the ghost in the mirror.”

Castiel, who was setting the table, wondered if he could get out of hanging out with these two if he stabbed himself with a spork.

“We’re in Kansas, sweet baby angel,” Uriel snapped back at Naomi. “Put down that blasphemous Bloody Mary and go make a damn salad before Hannah gets here. Been bustin’ my balls in the kitchen for a damn hour makin’ a roast and fuckin’ rosemary potatoes, so waste any more of my time and you’re goin’ in the oven next.”

Naomi rolled her eyes and pulled a face, but she got up and strutted past Uriel, drink in hand. 

If these two didn’t hate-fuck the tension out from between them soon, or better yet, get married and call it even, Castiel really was going to spork himself. Why Hannah wanted all of them together again, he would never truly know.

As if she were Tinkerbell, the very thought of her conjured a knock on the door. Jack went absolutely mental, his nails slipping and skidding across the floor as he ran to the door. 

Castiel shoved utensils into Uriel’s hands. “Can you finish this up? I’ll get the door.”

“Cook dinner, Uriel, you’re such a good cook, Uriel,” Uriel muttered, placing down the knives with care. “Set the table, Uriel. Make that shit look pretty, Uriel.”

Castiel scowled over his shoulder, but maneuvered around the chairs and couch to the doorway, brushing his hands off on his slacks. After leaning down to scoop Jack into his arms, he yanked open the door, planting a smile on his face to greet his cousin—

And...Sam?

“What?” Castiel blurted out, looking between Dean’s gigantic brother who had his hand raised awkwardly and his cousin Hannah, who grinned sheepishly and let go of her suitcase to flap her hand through the air.

“Hi, Cuz!” Hannah greeted, her blue eyes glittering fondly. “Hope you don’t mind, I kind of invited Sam? You remember Sam? From the festival?”

_No, no. I had completely forgotten Dean’s brother, Shaq._

“Oh, hey!” Sam said cheerfully, reaching out to let Jack sniff his hand. “You have a dog. Didn’t peg you as a dog person.” 

“Sam, of course,” Castiel said bluntly, reaching his hand out to shake Sam’s after Jack got a few pets from the new stranger. “I just...wasn’t expecting you. We’ll have to add another place at the table. I…”

Castiel leaned out into the hallway, looking around for more surprise guests...maybe one with sandy hair and freckles and—

Now _that_ would’ve been a nice surprise.

“You didn’t tell him?” Sam asked with a few hearty blinks down at Hannah, who looked between them bashfully.

“I...kind of forgot,” Hannah admitted, laughing a little and tucking her long bangs back out of her eyes. “Sorry, Cassie. Sam and I, um, kind of kept in contact after the festival.”

“That’s nice,” Castiel said slowly, the gears in his brain clicking together slowly. A voice at the back of his head stood up from its seat and screamed, “ _INVITE HIM IN, DICKHEAD.”_

“We’re kinda seeing each other?” Hannah said meekly, seemingly testing the waters as she glanced up at Sam and blushed. “...Right?”

Sam’s cheeks dimpled as he smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we are. I’m really sorry, Cas. I feel like an ass. I thought you knew—”

“Come in!” Castiel shook his head sharply and smiled again. Sam was nice. He was really nice. And he was Dean’s brother. “Please. I’m sorry, I’m being rude again; it’s no problem, really. We have lots of food. Good to see you. Is, um—” Castiel pushed hair from his forehead and tried to ask casually, “—Dean...coming...too?”

Sam barked a laugh and he shook his head as they walked into the apartment, Hannah’s suitcase rolling over Castiel’s foot. 

As Castiel let Jack down, Sam answered, “Oh, god, no. He’s workin’ late at the store. I was just hanging out at his place for the day when Hannah invited me.”

“Does he know about you two?” Castiel asked, closing the door behind them and gesturing between them with his finger. With a flicker of worry, he wondered why Dean wouldn’t’ve mentioned that his brother and Castiel’s cousin were dating. 

“Oh,” Sam said, exchanging looks with Hannah, their mouths stretching open in a grimace. “Well, he, uh, knows we’ve been texting, and knows I’m out hanging out with her tonight. I’m sure he kind of figures, but honestly, he gets all big brother weird on me and asks a lot of questions, so…”

“Later,” Hannah giggled, waving a hand and grunting as she tossed her suitcase onto Castiel’s couch. “We’ll tell him later. Oh, hi, Naomi!”

Castiel jerked forward, reaching his hand out to stop her, but before he could, Hannah was hugging Naomi, who was holding out a salad bowl to the side and looking shell-shocked when Hannah hugged her middle.

Uriel looked like Christmas had come early, grinning and leaning on the doorframe. “Aw, look at that, the girls are reunited.”

“Hello Hannah,” Naomi said through her teeth, looking ready to knock Hannah out with the wooden salad bowl and run out the door. Still, she did not, which was a relief.

“Samuel,” Uriel greeted with a nod. “Surprised to see you.”

Castiel rubbed at his forehead, pleased Hannah hadn’t been physically assaulted by the anti-hug warrior. Exhaling from puffy cheeks, Castiel murmured, “We’re going to need another place set for Sam.”

Uriel nodded and clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Sounds like a Castiel Job to me. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

* * *

Despite the surprise of Sam’s arrival, after his place was set and everyone helped themselves to Uriel’s food—which was, as promised, amazing—the evening started out rather smoothly and without any further surprises. Naomi and Uriel even kept their bickering to a minimum. Not, of course, that they had too much choice in the matter, since as usual, Hannah talked most of the evening. She and Sam filled most of the conversation with regaling everyone about their budding relationship, their long-distance arrangement, and going over which shows they liked the most during the festival.

It was a rather pleasant evening that had Castiel wondering why he didn’t make more of an effort to have people over and, well, have interactions with friends and acquaintances more often. Obviously he wasn’t _terrible_ at it. Everyone seemed to be having fun.

Of course, Naomi put an abrupt stop to that.

“So how is that brother of yours?” she asked Sam, raising a glass of wine to her lips and rocking it back and forth loftily. 

Sam looked between everyone and then cleared his throat, setting down the fork that’d been half-way to his mouth. “Oh, Dean?”

Naomi scowled. “Is there another one?”

“Well,” Sam chuckled, “we have a half-brother.”

“More than one brother?” Uriel asked, pretending to be shocked. “The nerve.”

Shifting her chair away from Uriel, Naomi glared daggers at him, then smiled tightly over at Sam. “I was referring to the one who I actually know the existence of. Yes; Dean.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. He’s great. Store is doin’ good.”

Naomi’s tight smile curled into an easy one. Castiel wanted to slump over into his roasted potatoes and groan. The look on her face meant nothing but trouble, and he did not want to find out what it was. 

She tilted her head, a hoop earring swaying under her curtain of sandy hair. “Is he seeing anyone?”

 _You horrible, horrible woman,_ Castiel thought, hoping she’d suddenly developed telepathy.

Sam tucked hair behind his ear and laughed. He actually _laughed_. It sent a cold chill down Castiel’s spine, despite how warm and amused Sam looked.

“Oh, hell no,” Sam replied, smirking around at everyone. “Dean’s a lone wolf.”

“Not the dating type?” Naomi suggested, shrugging.

“He's more of the hookup type. Love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda deal.” Sam waved a hand in the air, then reached forward for his glass. “It's probably not a good idea for him to date anyone right now, anyway. He can’t even make good decisions about his hookups, much less someone to date.”

“Really?” Naomi asked, looking intrigued. She took a sip and glanced at Castiel before asking curiously, “Why is that?”

Castiel set down his fork and adjusted the napkin in his lap, rubbing his clammy palms against it. He was starting to feel a bit sick and knew it had nothing to do with Uriel’s cooking.

“He’s just, uh…” Again, Sam shrugged. “Not interested in long-term stuff, I guess? Not really his thing. Besides, he’s got issues. I mean, other stuff to worry about.”

Castiel felt like he might legitimately be sick. The anxiety he’d been missing for weeks came back with a vengeance, gnawing at this stomach and slowly pushing his dinner up his throat. 

“Naomi,” he grunted, “I don’t think this is appropriate conversation. Dean isn’t here to defend himself—”

“Oh no,” Sam interrupted, shaking his hand in the air and smiling around. “He’d say the same thing. Anyway, yeah, he’s not seeing anyone. At least no one he’s mentioned to me,” Sam added with a chuckle, pausing to drink from his glass. “He tells me everything, so I think he’d tell me if he was. Dude loves to brag about his conquests—”

Sam jumped in his seat as his phone went off in his pocket, Daft Punk’s _Firestarter_ blaring from under the table cloth. While he fumbled for it and the others laughed at the boisterous interruption, Naomi leaned close to Castiel and whispered behind her wine glass, “Told you, babes.”

“Hey Dean,” Sam said quickly into the phone, his head ducked for a moment, his eyes darting around his plate. “I’m just at dinner, I’ll call you right back aft—”

Uriel’s chewing slowed as he watched Sam’s face drop, and Hannah stared at Castiel with worry, her hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Suddenly, Sam looked as close to being sick as Castiel felt. His hair fell into his eyes and the Winchester didn’t move to tuck it away, instead listening carefully to the low buzz of Dean’s voice. Then, he got up, barely managing not to trip over Jack who was at his feet and begging with his eyes. Quickly, Sam murmured, “Just gonna take this in the kitchen, sorry.”

The moment Sam was gone, Uriel’s eyebrows rose. “Trouble in paradise?”

Hannah leaned in and began whispering to Uriel, while Naomi leaned in again, her voice a quiet whisper. 

“I told you...” she repeated, her eyes boring into the side of Castiel’s face, while Castiel stared into the kitchen, wondering why Sam looked so shocked and what was going on with Dean. 

Naomi was still going. “...he’s toying with you, Castiel. I don’t want to see you get hurt, but I feel like you’re putting more into this than he is with you. Don’t you see—”

“Is everything all right?” Castiel asked, shoving the chair back with a loud scrape as Sam re-entered the room, sliding his phone into his pocket. Jack followed happily, his tail wagging, completely oblivious to the situation.

“No,” Sam replied quickly, his eyes darting around the room to find his jacket that’d been hung by the door. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for having me; I have to go.”

“You’re leaving?” Hannah asked, getting up and twisting around too, her hand in a fist around the top of her chair. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll call you later,” Sam called over his shoulder, waving as he left abruptly, the door closing behind him with a sharp thud.

Castiel stood there awkwardly, feeling sick from Sam’s words, wondering why Dean hadn’t mentioned him _at all_ to his brother—arguably, his best friend—and wondering what was happening on the other end of that phone. What was wrong? Was Dean alright? He wanted to text Dean; hours ago, he might’ve actually done it, convinced they were moving towards something potentially meaningful, but now he felt frozen, unsure if he was much more than another bad hookup.

“Oh, dear,” Naomi said with a slurp into her wine glass. “What a turn of events.”


	7. Come Away With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kradarua for betaing this chapter. <3
> 
> Enjoy this chapter's tunes: [AC/DC - Shook Me All Night Long](https://youtu.be/PAvZ__zwiyM), [Snake River Conspiracy - Love Song](https://youtu.be/JP0fQ9zriO8), and [Norah Jones - Come Away With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JRHTXFIKfFs).

Having Hannah around was a blessing and a curse; she was a distraction from Castiel’s overthinking about why Dean wasn’t texting him anymore, but also, she was a distraction from Castiel’s overthinking about why Dean wasn’t texting him anymore. 

Saturday morning, she dragged him to a dog park to ‘socialize Jack’ and insisted they try to teach him more tricks. Saturday night, she got herself invited to Uriel’s house. The three of them ended up around a firepit in Uriel’s backyard, listening to him tell them about how he’d dumped his girlfriend a few days back. His story involved a lot of pacing and hand gestures and vivid descriptions of the sexual position he'd found his girlfriend and her coworker in last night when he returned from dinner.

They’d ended up sleeping over after helping Uriel indoors and lying him onto his side in bed, too nervous to leave him alone until morning. Hannah fell asleep in the bed beside him a few feet away, while Castiel slept on the floor, his head propped up with a pillow he’d found on the couch in the living room. He’d stared at the ceiling fan of Uriel’s bedroom, wondering why the hell Dean hadn’t texted. He wondered if he was another bad decision made by Dean Winchester. Or worse, maybe he was a _good_ decision; because he was easily enamoured and taken advantage of.

Once Sunday rolled around, they went out to breakfast, where Uriel insisted he was _fine,_ he was just _fiiiine._

Hannah patted his arm, Castiel bought him breakfast, and no one mentioned it when he disappeared to the bathroom for an extended amount of time, probably to be sick. Castiel tried not to check his phone repeatedly, but Hannah noticed and questioned him about it. In a panic, he’d replied, “I just want to make sure the weather keeps up so we can spend some time outdoors.”

And thanks to his panic, he did, indeed, spend the rest of his weekend outdoors. Hannah made him walk around Clinton Lake and take her shopping on Massachusetts street. While she asked him for help on picking out the "perfect" Lawrence, Kansas fridge magnet for her travel collection, he'd offered, “Oh, that one is nice,” and “Mhmmn, that one would...certainly hold papers to your fridge,” but he really wanted to say, “ _Can we please go home so I can stare at my phone and scream internally in private?_ ”

Thankfully, Sam texted her that night, inviting her out to dinner. Castiel wanted to jump up and down—not because he wished her to be gone, but because that meant whatever serious thing had drawn Sam away from their dinner couldn’t be _that_ bad if he was inviting a girl over. In fact, Castiel considered that maybe if Sam was spending time alone, then Dean would be alone. Maybe he hadn’t texted Castiel because he’d been too busy with his brother...who he hadn’t told about seeing Castiel yet… 

Yes, it all made sense. Kinda.

It all went downhill quickly when Hannah finished getting ready and said in hushed tones, wincing, “I might not come home tonight. Well, actually, I _won’t_ come back home tonight, so please don’t wait up or worry!”

From the couch, Castiel looked up away from the TV where Monica was shaking her shoulders at Chandler, a turkey shoved upon her head. “What?”

Standing awkwardly at the end of the couch, her hands tightening around the strap of her backpack, Hannah chuckled and offered, “Sam’s kind of invited me to stay the night? W-We’re long-distance—”

As if she needed to remind him of her long-distance thing with Sam for the 56th time. 

“—and we haven’t spent any time together _like that_ yet… Anyway, his brother isn’t home tonight so—”

Castiel’s brain fizzled out for a moment at the mention of Dean. He hoped he didn’t look white in the face, because the blood rushed out of his cheeks and he nodded dumbly, slowly, hoping he looked casual. 

“Dean, right?” Castiel clarified, as if he hadn't tangled tongues with the very man several times over the last few weeks. “If his brother is visiting, why would he not be home?”

Hannah, who had apparently been mid-sentence, closed her mouth for a moment, narrowing her eyes. “Not sure? Sam just said something about knowing he’d have the place to himself for the night.”

“Oh,” Castiel said breathily, nodding. When Hannah stared at him, her resolve weaning, Castiel smiled tightly and gave her an uncomfortable thumbs-up. “Of course. You two...have fun.”

Hannah grimaced and swept around the arm of the couch, plopping down beside Jack, who was warming Castiel’s feet. “I can stay, Cuz. Really, if you’d rather we spent more time together—”

“No, no. Please go and have fun with Sam. I, um, hope he’s all right, you know, after leaving so abruptly at dinner.” He paused, tilting his head. “Did he ever tell you what happened?”

“Oh, no,” Hannah replied, shaking her head, her brown waves flopping around her collarbone. “But I’m sure he’ll tell me tonight. He did say he’d had a horrible weekend and was excited to see me.” She sat up excitedly and tapped at his foot. “If he says it’s all right, I can tell you all about it tomorrow.”

Struggling for words—because why the hell was Dean not going to be sleeping at his own house on a Sunday night?—Castiel just waved her off and smiled. She kissed his cheek in goodbye, scratched at Jack’s ears, and practically skipped all the way to the door.

Chandler said he loved Monica and Castiel shut off the TV, sitting up and staring down at his knees under a blanket, feeling nauseated. 

Why was Dean not going to come home tonight? What had Castiel done wrong to deserve nearly three days of silence from a man he’d thought was interested in him? They’d talked nearly every day, and spent nearly every weekend together here, on the couch, making out or watching movies or listening to music. They’d ordered pizza. Castiel now knew Dean liked pineapple on pizza but didn’t want him to tell anyone. They’d talked. They’d stayed up hours past midnight just _talking_. 

Mistake #1: Castiel had been allowed to talk.

Of course he’d ruined this somehow. 

After tugging at a thread from his blanket for long enough for Jack to get annoyed and start snapping at it, Castiel got up, throwing the blanket over the dog, whose tail wagged like crazy from under the edge. He dragged his feet across his lonely apartment, where he was hanging out by himself. Again. 

Castiel opened the fridge and stared at its contents, still wondering what he’d done wrong to merit complete silence from Dean. Sure, he hadn’t exactly reached out either, but he’d told Dean he would be busy with Hannah—

God, he was going to be forever alone. 

When his balls tightened up close to his body and his outie became an innie, Castiel realised he’d been standing in front of the open fridge, staring at a container of forgotten feta cheese for at least five minutes. Ugh, his electricity bill was going to be ugly if he kept moping like this, wasting electricity. 

Shuddering, Castiel reached out to pluck a water bottle from the fridge with all intentions of going back to his blanket and his couch and more Chandler and Monica—he’d have to re-accept his old way of life again where his spare time wasn’t spent stumbling his way through dates during which Dean was smooth and charming and Castiel was awkward. He just managed to shut the door behind him when his phone went off in the living room, buzzing across the glass coffee table.

His gut instinct was to dash across the kitchen and burst out into the living room to dive for his phone, but his feet shuffled awkwardly to the threshold and he stared at the phone instead. He wanted it to be Dean, but he knew it was probably Naomi calling him for the twentieth time since Friday night. She knew he was mad at her for being a complete bitch during the dinner party and purposefully digging for information that’d break his heart. 

Castiel leaned on the doorway to the living room and drank from his water until the phone stopped buzzing. Then, with an ache in his chest, he dragged his feet to the table and leaned over, turning the screen so he could read whatever biting text Naomi’d sent him. He could just imagine the message; “ _How DARE you ignore me when I was just trying to be a good friend? I’m trying to look OUT for you! Pick up your stupid phone, Castiel. Grow up.”_

But instead, he froze. 

_Dean: Missed Call (1)_

The closed water bottle fell from his hand and bounced onto the couch beside Jack, whose snout popped up from under the edge of the blanket for a mere moment before he emerged in a pounce, gnawing and pawing at the plastic. Meanwhile, Castiel cradled the phone in his hand and stared at it through wide eyes.

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head and punching in his lock code with clumsy fingers. “No, no, no—please call me back, please—”

Suddenly Jack’s ears perked up and he stared at the door, causing Castiel to do a double at it while he shook his phone as if that was going to do anything useful. “God, I’m such an idiot. I should call him, I—”

Jack bounced to his feet, scrambling over the water bottle to prop his front paws up on the arm of the couch, his ears pointed straight up to the ceiling. Castiel had opened his mouth to wonder aloud why Jack had to be such a weird puppy when he heard it too; muffled noises.

Confused as to who was lurking outside his doorway so late on a Sunday, Castiel lowered his phone to his side and crept over to the door, pressing his ear to the wood.

“—supposed to be cute. You were supposed to pick up and I was gonna ask you if you were busy, and if you said no, I was gonna knock and you’d open the door, and I’d be right here. It would’ve been cute or whatever, but I guess you’re not home, so, uh, just ignore this voicemail. Hope you’re having fun, whatever you’re d—”

Scrambling to slide his phone into his pocket, Castiel nearly face planted into the door as he squinted into the peephole. Confirmed; six feet of freckles and sandy hair stood in his hallway, staring down at his feet and leaving a precious voicemail—

To say he absolutely wrenched the door open would’ve been a slight exaggeration, but there was definitely a breeze as he swung open the door and breathed out, “Dean?”

Dean’s big green eyes blinked up at him as he raised his chin. After flashing a cheeky smile, Dean said slowly into the phone, “Actually, nevermind. You opened the door, so I’m gonna go now and see if you’re busy.”

A series of questions flooded Castiel’s mind; _Where have you been? What did I do wrong? Why haven’t you spoken to me in days? Am I being crazy? Am I just worrying about yet another thing I shouldn’t be worried about? Is everything okay between you and Sam? Why the hell haven’t you told anyone about me? Your brother doesn’t even know we’re friends, let alone… What are we? Why are you ashamed of this?_

Instead, he asked in a blunt rasp, “Why are you standing in front of my door?”

Dean’s smirk faded a bit and he rotated his shoulders, clearing his throat before he answered uncomfortably, “Trying to be charming and hope you’re not pissed for the radio silence?”

“I…’m not,” Castiel lied, trying to lean on the door in a way that looked casual, though he felt stiff and was very aware that he hadn’t brushed his hair since before going over to Uriel’s yesterday. “I didn’t even notice, I’ve been busy.”

Liar. Lying liar who lied!

“Cool,” Dean replied quietly, nodding. It was when his smile dropped off his face that Castiel noticed the dark smudges under his eyes and dry skin peeling his lips a bit. 

Under a surging wave of guilt, Castiel stepped back and gestured into the apartment. “Hannah isn’t here right now, if you wanted to come in?”

Dean’s eyes—they looked very green when his lids were... Were they rimmed in red?—peeked past him into the apartment, where Jack only just caught side of him and launched off the armrest, skidding across the hardwood as Dean stepped in. 

“Sup, chaos puppy?” Dean murmured, leaning down to pet Jack while Castiel closed the door and tried not to eye the band of boxer briefs poking from the top of Dean’s jeans when his shirt rode up.

Jack replied by snapping at Dean’s fingers excitedly, but gnawed gently on his thumb when Dean scratched under his ears. 

“So—” Dean straightened up and slid his hands into his pockets. “—how’s the weekend with Hannah been?”

“Fine,” Castiel replied quickly, before gesturing into the kitchen with a thumb over his shoulder. “Would you like a drink? S-Something to eat?”

Ugh, how frustrating. They’d just started to feel comfortable around each other, and now, after days of mystery silence, Castiel was right back to square one. Right back to anxiety in the face of an enigma wrapped in worn cotton, flannel, and denim. 

“No, I’m g—” 

Castiel squinted in confusion when Dean stopped himself, pressing a hand to his stomach, looking equally puzzled.

“Actually,” Dean laughed airily, shaking his head, “I guess I forgot to eat today.”

Odd.

“I don’t have much,” Castiel admitted, scratching at the stubble he hadn’t shaved since Friday. “Hannah and I brought back pastries from a bakery we passed on Massachusetts earlier today. There isn’t much left, but I can heat you up an apple fritter and—”

For some reason, Dean smiled tightly and waved a hand in the air. “I can’t do that, man. I didn’t come here with my hand out, asking to be fed—”

“I’d like to feed you.”

Castiel stood his ground, though he physically winced at how incredibly awkward he was. Barely functional or human, yet again. With a huff, he shifted on his feet and tried, “I just mean that it wouldn’t be a hassle. We can order food, too, if you’d like to stay for…” Forever. “...for a bit.”

Dean raised a brow. “Have _you_ eaten?”

Remembering breakfast, and the three deliciously warm and sweet honey crullers he’d shoved into his mouth for lunch, and then the extra-large misery pizza he and Hannah had ordered a few hours ago, Castiel blurted out, “No, not much.”

“Okay,” Dean conceded, “then let’s do it.”

“I...have a flyer for a local Chinese food place on my fridge. If that—”

“Yeah, that’s awesome, Cas. Sure.”

Castiel jerked his head in a nod and pointed into the kitchen. “I’ll be back, then. You can make yourself comfortable.”

They parted ways, Dean leading a waggy-tailed, bouncing Jack over to the couch while Castiel ducked into the kitchen, hoping the damn Chinese food joint was still open. That flyer had been on his fridge for over a year, if not two, and restaurants opened and closed their doors too often to be reliable around here. 

As he made his way over to the fridge, he felt the wall separating them as though it were a shield. Hidden from seeing Dean’s reaction, Castiel tugged the flyer off the fridge and began to slide his phone from his pocket. “Do you often forget to eat? You must’ve been very busy this weekend.”

“I had plans to take Sam bar hopping,” Dean said, his tone peculiar. Maybe it was just muffled through the wall. “But, uh—”

Castiel stepped out into the living room and caught Dean staring at the ground between his bow legs. He was sitting on the arm rest, his hands limp between his thighs.

Jack was fighting with the water bottle on the couch again, ignoring their visitor now that the novelty had worn off.

Castiel nearly opened his mouth to interrupt, to ask what Dean wanted to eat, but then—

“My dad took a turn for the worse,” Dean choked out, his voice strained. Even from the half-view of his face, Castiel saw Dean’s adam’s apple bob and his strong chin scrunch up. Thinly, Dean said, “He had a fucking stroke _again._ Third one in like two months. I-I-It’s all these meds they got him o-on, like on top of what he already...has…”

Half-way to the couch, a few feet away from Dean, Castiel froze. Was Dean _crying?_

Oh. Oh, shit. Castiel was a world class idiot. A clown. He had spent all weekend pissed off about not getting a few stupid text messages, and sad that Dean hadn’t mentioned anything about him to his brother, and there Dean was, having _real_ problems, grieving over his father having a goddamn stroke.

Feeling a bit paralyzed, Castiel breathed, “Dean, I…”

He was _definitely_ crying. With a hard, wet sniff, Dean turned his face towards Castiel just a fraction, just enough for him to see impossibly wet eyes that were _definitely_ red, and his usually plump lips were dry and shaking a bit. Quickly, Dean reached up and ran a hand over his face, pulling wetness away with his fingertips.

“God, I am so embarrassed,” Dean admitted shakily. “I didn’t come here to be a blubbering idiot, I swear. I-I just wanted to apologize, so I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t want to t-tell you, to make it all fucking awkward. Can I—I’m just gonna use your bathroom, okay? Get myself together and—Fuck, maybe I should just go, I didn’t mean to—”

Castiel, feeling like a true court jester, standing there with a Chinese food flyer in one hand and his phone in the other and gaping his way through a tearful breakdown, stepped forward and asked hoarsely, “Can I hug you?”

Despite saying so, Dean did not make a break for the bathroom or the front door. Instead, he ran his wrist under his nose and stared at Castiel, his eyes shining, seeming unsure. Then, in a movement so small Castiel almost blinked and missed it, he nodded.

Castiel walked forward cautiously and when he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders, the flyer crumpling in his fist. With Dean sitting on the armrest, he was a bit shorter, but it was the perfect angle for Dean to wrap his arms around his ribs and press his wet cheeks against Castiel’s chest, and for Castiel to curl down around him, to hold him close. 

“Why do you hug like such an alien?” Dean half-sobbed, half-laughed into Castiel’s shirt, his breath hot and damp against his chest. 

“I’m very terrible at this, I’m so sorry,” Castiel murmured into his hair, though he smiled when Dean’s shoulders shook with a muffled, if watery, chuckle. Dean hugged him back, his cling impossibly tight. “My people skills are...rusty.”

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, still holding on, his face pressed to Castiel’s chest. “What does it say about my p-people skills that I meant to come here to say sorry, and i-instead started gettin’ all weepy?”

“I imagine it means you’re just human,” Castiel replied, sorta-maybe rubbing his cheek into Dean’s hair. It could use a wash, but it smelled like books and old wood. He probably smelled like the music store, Castiel reckoned, inhaling again.

Maybe he was creeped out by the smelling, because Dean leaned back and wiped at his face.

“You’re...really nice, you know that?”

Castiel stepped away, breaking the hug but warmed by Dean’s hands as they stayed connected, his palms pressed to Castiel’s sides.

“I do try,” Castiel admitted, swallowing loudly as he pressed the flyer to his chest, trying to smooth it out with his sweaty palm. “I ruined this. Here, perhaps I can flatten it a bit so you can see what’s on the menu—”

Castiel was cut off when Dean stood a bit, his legs still bracketing the armrest, and the hands he had on Castiel’s hips coming up to his face. Before Castiel could murmur something about being very much partial to almond soo guy, Dean pressed their lips together, a soft noise escaping his throat.

They kissed quietly for a few moments before Castiel pulled back and breathed, “Do you want a drink?”

“I’ll get us something from the fridge,” Dean whispered back, licking at his lips and eyeing Castiel’s before he slid out from between him and the armrest. Heading to the kitchen, with his chin dipped a bit and his hands wiping at his face, Dean said, “You order whatever.”

So Castiel did. He ordered one thing from each category of the menu, and about four kinds of noodles and rice, unsure of what Dean liked. Honestly, it was enough food for about eight people but Dean’s dad was sick and Dean was not dealing with it well, so the least Castiel could do after being insensitive was to feed the man. 

Dean had indeed ducked into the washroom, so after Castiel ordered, he fed Jack and changed out of his moping clothing into a cleaner black t-shirt and jeans. He threw on his maroon hoodie and put on a bit of quiet music, careful not to put on anything too sexy: the last thing he needed was Dean thinking he was trying to take advantage of his bad day. When Dean came back out, his hair a bit wet around his face like he’d splashed himself with water.

Castiel was sitting on the couch with Jack in his lap.

“Food is ordered,” Castiel murmured, absolutely hating himself for thinking that despite the dark under-eye bags, the redness in his waterline, and the pale look to Dean’s face, that he still looked damn fine. He knew Dean probably hadn’t changed out of that wrinkled Led Zeppelin shirt in a few days (judging by the two days of stubble and slightly dirty, messy hair), but Dean pulled the look off well.

“Cool, I think I’m starting to get hungry,” Dean admitted, shrugging his shoulders and scrunching his socked feet into the hardwood. 

“You probably got upset because of your blood sugar,” Castiel said bluntly, unsure what else to say when Dean kind of looked like he was still on the brink of crying again if pushed. Then he paused, realising what he'd said. Awkwardly, he insisted in a rush, "Not _just_ because of your blood sugar—because of your father, o-of course, but you know—I only meant—"

However, Dean grinned crookedly and entered deeper into the room, dropping down beside Castiel and folding a leg under himself, their thighs brushing. “Don't worry, I know what you meant. But, yeah,” Dean said hoarsely, lowering his eyes to Jack as he reached over to pet his back, “everything’s been totally fucked this weekend. The hospital called on Friday night—”

Castiel paled, remembering Sam leaving dinner abruptly on Friday after a call from Dean. 

“—and by the time Sam and I got there, they weren’t really taking visitors and he was just out of an emergency surgery. So we had to fucking camp out ‘til morning. The only plus side was that this was the first time Sam has seen Dad in years.” 

Dean’s cheeks were getting red, as was the tip of his nose. Quietly, Castiel leaned backwards and plucked a tissue box off the table beside his couch. Wordlessly, he offered it to Dean, who huffed in bitter laughter, but when his green eyes flickered up to Castiel, they were warm and thankful.

“A silver lining,” Castiel pointed out, hoping it was the right thing to say.

Dean’s eyes were lowered again and from that angle, Castiel could see how thick the tears were that clung to his lashes but didn’t fall. 

“Yeah,” Dean exhaled shakily. He ran the tissue under his nose. “Except my dad can’t fucking talk because of the stroke. They don’t know if it’s permanent or temporary, or if he doesn’t know h-how—” 

They sat in silence while Dean visibly swallowed a few sobs and tried with all of his might not to cry. Castiel wished he wouldn’t worry about that; he wished Dean could just feel freer to express his emotions, but he knew it was a struggle. He’d gathered from their conversations and from his own observation that the man in front of him struggled with pain. 

So he just held onto the tissue box and his fingertips pressed to Dean’s knee, hoping they said _“Go on, it’s all right. I’m socially awkward, but I’m listening.”_

Visibly regrouped, Dean cleared the lump in his throat—Castiel knew the feeling, the feeling of not even knowing whether or not words would be physically possible, whether he could open his mouth at all. Thickly, Dean continued. “They don’t know what it is, whether it’s brain damage or some kinda trau...trauma. It’s just so fucked and by the time we left Saturday night, I was so fucking pissed off.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because,” Dean said angrily, lifting his head and fixing a furious gaze on Castiel, his green eyes simultaneously dark and incredibly bright. “Because it took near-death for Sam to finally drag his ass to the hospital. M-My...My dad asks about him _every time_. Every damn time I’m there; he doesn’t see me at all. He just wants Sam. A-A-And now Sam finally fucking showed up and Dad can’t even talk to him.”

It wasn’t rational, but grief seldom was. Castiel’s fingertips slid over the warm denim and he pressed his palm there instead, giving Dean’s leg a squeeze. He didn’t know what to say, but Dean didn’t need him to say much, it seemed. 

“I know it makes me a dick,” Dean wept, the floodgates opened, his pale face splotched with red, thick tears dripping down his face. Castiel knew this was probably killing him to admit, to speak out loud to someone else. They’d known each other for a month, but truthfully, he felt like he’d known him forever—except for the fact that he didn’t know what he liked to order for Chinese food.

“You’re not a dick—” Castiel began.

“I’m a dick, Cas,” Dean insisted with an angry shake of his head as he rubbed at his face with the tissue. “I screamed at Sam. Told 'im he was being heartless and I...told him Dad doesn’t give a shit about me because of him, which isn’t fucking true. I mean, it’s true, but it's not his fault. And...God, I told Sam that Dad was gonna die thinking he hated him, and…” Dean rubbed at his face, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I just said a lot of horrible shit and then took off in the morning, saying I wouldn’t come back tonight, that I’d be working at the store all day and sleeping on the couch in there. I told him, uh…”

Castiel leaned back a bit, squinting his eyes when Dean seemed to peer at him guiltily. “What?”

“I kinda told him to go fuck Hannah, ‘cause she’s all he talks about these days. He says they’re ‘just friends’ but… Anyway, sorry if this was an awkward way to find out that _I think_ your cousin is dating my brother.”

Castiel relaxed and leaned his head sideways against the back of the couch. With a small smile, he rumbled, “I may have known about them already, Dean. I apologize. They came over Friday night for a dinner I’d planned for Hannah. I didn’t know Sam would be coming but Hannah brought him along.”

“Ah,” Dean said, scowling a bit. “Well, anyway...it’s been a really shitty weekend.”

“It appears so,” Castiel replied in a murmur, wetting his lips. “I can understand why you forgot to eat today.”

To his delight, Dean lifted his head and laughed, his red eyes appearing the tiniest bit fond. “Yeah, Cas. Thanks.”

“You’ll eat soon and the world may appear brighter after a few chicken balls.”

Dean’s laugh faded into a small grin and he moaned. “I love chicken balls. Umph, bite-sized bread and chicken, and oh, with that red sauce?" He mimed dipping. "I wanna know what’s in that sauce, 'cause it’s like crack.”

“Sugar,” Castiel pondered out loud, wrinkling his nose. “Vinegar. Ketchup. Some sort of corn starch, I’m assuming. I...only ordered two of them because I wasn’t sure what you liked, so you can have both. I’ll enjoy the lemon chicken instead.”

Dean rested his head on the back of the couch as well, his cheek a bit squashed. “I love lemon chicken, too.”

“Well, you can have the lemon chicken as well, then. As a matter of fact, you can have all fifteen entrees and I’ll just watch.”

The joke landed so smoothly he was surprised a band of travellers didn’t stand up from behind couches and tables to clap for him. Dean hiccuped in surprise and laughed again, looking ridiculously lovely despite his tear-damp face and red nose. 

“Man, you’re the best,” Dean chuckled, pulling up his t-shirt collar to wipe his entire face on the inside of his shirt. When he reappeared, they shared a pair of smiles and a comfortable silence, despite the fact that they were staring at each other.

...They did that a lot.

“I’m sorry I didn’t really talk to you for a few days there,” Dean murmured, “I get why that might’ve been kinda shitty for you.”

Castiel pursed his lips and admitted sheepishly, “I didn’t reach out to you either. We...were both busy with family. And I had no business being upset; your father was suffering a medical emergency and I was merely being dragged around by my hyper-active cousin—”

“You were upset?” Dean asked, though he didn’t seem surprised. He wore a smirk on his dry lips. “I knew it. You missed the Dean lovin’, huh, Sunshine?”

_No, the texts and lack thereof are not the real issue here. You haven’t told a soul about being involved with me. I’m wondering if I’m embarrassing? If I’m your dirty little secret? If you have no intentions of being something serious, if I’m falling for you when you’re just—_

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he rasped, “I just—You don’t—well, you see—”

His flapping lips were saved from having to admit he’d gotten irrationally twisted into a knot about not hearing from Dean on a weekend where they’d both been entertaining their seperate out-of-town guests. Dean leaned over and kissed Castiel again. He kissed with a bit more enthusiasm, since there weren’t tears actively falling down his face this time.

As a matter of fact, the puppy jumped off of Castiel’s lap, and a few minutes later, Dean had taken his place, his ass heavy on Castiel’s thighs, his legs bracketing his hips. Inspired and energized, Castiel ran his hands down Dean’s back and stomach when they weren’t tangled in his hair, and—

The buzzer at the door went off, interrupting their hot and heavy moment. Dean groaned when he had to slide off of Castiel’s lap. 

Soon afterwards, they were seated on the floor, curled over the coffee table and at the mercy of about fifteen different containers of all kinds of food. On the TV, Phoebe sang _Smelly Cat_ in a hoarse voice, and Dean chuckled around a mouthful of noodles. They didn’t speak much while they ate, except for when Dean insisted they each have a chicken ball. Jack whined and stomped his little paws on the carpet, demanding he was shared with—a command the humans promptly ignored.

“Ross is such a weiner,” Dean said thickly around another mouthful of noodles before dipping a spring roll in an alarmingly large vat of sweet and sour sauce.

“He certainly enjoys complaining,” Castiel agreed, throwing propriety to the wind and pouring the red sauce all over every item on his plate. “I think Rachel should’ve ended up with Joey.”

“I think Ross should’ve ended up with Ugly Naked Guy,” Dean grunted. “They deserve each other.”

Dean and Castiel exchanged blank stares for a moment, then they both broke out into full-mouthed throaty gulps of laughter.

“The mental images will scar me for life,” Castiel chuckled, after struggling to swallow an entire broccoli floret that’d shot down his gullet mid-laugh. “Thank you.”

To his delight, Dean leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Despite the stickiness of his lips, Castiel felt a roaring swarm of giddy butterflies swirl around in his stomach, drowning out the heavy feeling of rocks. He wanted to ask Dean why he hadn’t told anyone about him yet, he just wanted an answer—

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel looked away from the television over at Dean, who was staring into a cardboard takeout box and picking at the insides with chopsticks. “What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, his eyebrows knitting together. “Do you not like—”

“Nothing,” Dean murmured, licking at his lips and looking like the egg noodles were worthy of deep contemplation. Then he raised his head and Castiel found himself on the receiving end of a very pensive stare. “I just wanted to… This—” Dean gestured between them with his chopsticks. “—has been really nice.”

Oh, _no_. This was how breakups began on TV. Castiel regretted putting so much on his plate and drowning it in sauce, because he suddenly couldn't bear the thought of eating it. He felt sick. His appetite disappeared in a puff of smoke. Pushing it away, he shuffled a few inches back from Dean on the rug and asked tightly, “Oh?”

The green eyes softened and got a bit shiny, but not with tears this time. Dean stared at him, and Castiel shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the blow.

“I’ve been really happy with you,” Dean explained quietly. “Coming here, y’know, on weekends and after work and stuff…” Dean’s head dipped down again and he picked at the insides of the takeout container. “It’s just been really nice. I...never did _this_ with a dude, a-and I know I keep saying this, but it’s...like, monumental for me. It’s huge. I’ve hooked up and stuff after I came out, but, uh… This—” Again, the chopsticks re-emerged to gesture between them. “—is new and it’s just really awesome.”

 _Oh._ Castiel blinked and relaxed, realising his shoulders had been tight and tense. After a moment to process, he smiled and ran his teeth over his dry lips. “It has been.”

Dean glanced up, raising his brows. “For you too?”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted with a huff. “Very much. Awesome.”

“Very much awesome,” Dean parroted, grinning. “Cool.”

 _Say something that makes sense in the English language,_ Castiel growled to himself. He cracked his back a bit, uncomfortable from sitting on the floor—his mid-thirties body wasn’t made to sit on hardwood, even with a rug for cushioning. After taking a heavy inhale, Castiel admitted, “I have...felt lonely for a long time.”

Dean had put a snow pea in his mouth as he’d waited for a response, and at Castiel’s words, his chewing slowed.

It...It was too late now, Castiel thought, so he powered on anyway. “I often feel misunderstood, which sounds juvenile to hear as I’m nearly thirty-five, but...I figured I would always be alone because of it. I don’t always…” 

He trailed off, feeling the butterflies disappear and leave the rocks behind again, heavy at the base of his stomach. He almost felt breathless, but Dean set down the takeout box and turned on the carpet to give Castiel his entire attention. “Hey, you can talk, too," Dean said. "I kinda stole the show today.”

Castiel flashed him a small smile, not because it felt good to be vulnerable, but because he was internally paralyzed, horrified Dean might realise he’d made a mistake and leave. “People don’t always understand me and I’m too in my own head most of the time to really understand them either. And I know my anxiety shows on my face—”

Dean’s fingertips pressed into Castiel’s leg.

“I’m...nervous about many things,” Castiel murmured, dropping his gaze. “My ‘peach’ of a mother can be thanked for that. She was...unimpressed with how I turned out.”

“She find out you were gay?” Dean asked, looking as if he was bristling. 

“ _No,”_ Castiel gasped, laughing a bit at the trauma of the very thought. “God, no. _No._ I haven’t spoken to her since she kicked me out after college. I never reached out again and she never cared, so she never found out about _that_. She just...didn’t like me. Simple as that. She didn’t like me, didn't think I was good at anything or for anything, and yet I was supposed to abide by her restrictive religion that dictated who I was, and who I associated with, and… I don’t know why I’m confessing all this.”

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “You’re allowed to—”

“I think my point is,” Castiel powered on before he lost his nerve, “that you make me very happy, too. You...being here makes me feel not so alone. I don’t feel misunderstood. You don’t make me feel like an unwanted, anxious loser who isn't good at anything.”

To his surprise, instead of patting him on the knee and leaving, Dean leaned forward, his elbow propped on the couch seat. He stared into Castiel’s eyes, glancing between them like there was something incredibly interesting there. “For an anxious loser, you’re a pretty good dancer. You ain’t shy there.”

Castiel’s cheeks got hot and he smiled, biting at his lower lip. “Other than when I’m with you, dancing is pretty much the only time I don’t feel alone or incompetent.”

“Y’know, I’m not that good at dancing,” Dean said conversationally, his teeth glittering in the light, “but I kinda feel the same way when I’m dancing with you. I mean—” He winked. “—hard to look bad when I’ve got a pro like you in my arms.”

“You don’t have to flirt with me so much,” Castiel chuckled. “I’m already enamoured with you.”

Dean shrugged casually, feigning shyness jokingly. “Yeah, but hitting on you is _fun._ And if I do it when the music is good, you dance with me.”

Despite Phoebe trying to steal her cold back from Monica on TV, the radio still played music quietly from Castiel’s work desk. Dean nodded over to it. “Turn that up, hot stuff. Let's do this.”

“Now?” Castiel asked, alarmed, his brows raised. He gestured around to the table covered in Chinese food. “After this feast? I can hardly sit, let alone dance.”

“Come _on,”_ Dean said, tugging at Castiel’s hands and jerking his head at the table. “Help me move this table, turn up the music, and let’s have a little fun.” 

Unable to turn him down, and frankly, not wanting to, Castiel helped Dean move the table out of the way. He put the leftovers in the fridge so that Jack didn’t get his sticky little paws on them, while Dean connected his phone to the bluetooth radio and muted Friends. 

When Castiel returned to the living room, Dean was throwing the remote onto the couch. The moment they locked eyes, Castiel felt a nervous flutter in his stomach, like one of the butterflies in his stomach was nudging him and whispering, _“He’s pretty, isn’t he? Go dance with him!”_

“Hey,” Dean greeted airily, wiping his hands on his jeans.

A bit of AC/DC played in the background, the beginning notes of ' _You Shook Me All Night Long'_ came from the stereo loud enough to hear but not loud enjoy to piss off Castiel’s neighbours. With the light from the muted TV show flashing to his side, Dean did indeed look pretty, and Castiel was absolutely going to dance with him. 

Dean’s thumb jerked over his shoulder. “Hope you’re cool with some oldies. I got a bunch of weird shit on here, and I know you’re kind of a pop and hip-hop guy, but this stuff is kinda my thing—”

Castiel responded by curling his hips a bit and mouthing to the song; “ _She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean—”_ He ran his hands down his own body. “ _She was the best damn woman I had ever seen—_ ”

Dean looked absolutely gleeful as Castiel acted like a damn fool, turning on his heels and shimmying his hips all the way over to him until Dean was laughing right in his face and holding his cheeks in his palms. Together, they sang.

“ _Taking more than her share, had me fighting for air._ ” Dean leaned forward to punctuate their karaoke with a kiss on Castiel’s chin, and their feet bumped as their hips swished. “ _She told me to come—”_ Castiel fanned himself, making Dean throw his head back to laugh. “ _—but I was already there...”_

The next half-hour was filled with grinding hips and arms entangled and Dean’s silly attempts at twists and spins and dips. They laughed when the carpet slipped under their feet and they tumbled onto the couch. 

And they breathed heavily when Snake River Conspiracy’s cover of ' _Love Song'_ had their bodies pressed together so closely Castiel was convinced they were melded together. 

Castiel’s heartbeat picked up in his chest when to his surprise, Dean turned around and ground his ass back into Castiel’s jeans, reaching back to guide Castiel’s hands down his front. He’d never danced with Dean like this, but it brought back the fond memory of their first dance ever, of the sweating and curling their hips in sync under the fog and strobe lights. It felt...incredible to hold Dean like this, to dance with his back pressed to Castiel’s chest, with his hips rolling under his palms...

The song faded away, and either the next one was too quiet or the radio had stopped. Dean and Castiel went still for a moment, and then Dean glanced over his shoulder bashfully, his cheeks tinged pink. 

“How’d I do?” Dean asked in a short huff of laughter. “Never really...did that but I—I learned from the best.”

“I suppose so,” Castiel murmured, flashing Dean a small grin, his heart jumping and spinning in glee. “It shows.”

Dean smiled wide and earnest, looking pleased with himself; it was lovely and Castiel never wanted to look away, yet he leaned in anyway to capture Dean’s lips with a content exhale. Dean turned back to face him, his arms came up around his shoulders in an embrace.

As if on cue, a few piano notes twinkled through the air and Norah Jones’ soothing, romantic voice wafted through the air like summer-time lilac. 

_“Come away with me in the night..._

_Come away with me,_

_And I will write you a song…”_

Castiel’s hands stilled on Dean’s waist and they gazed into each other’s eyes, their kiss broken by only an inch, held together by thin wisps of their breath. 

“I can turn this off,” Dean whispered, his eyes darting across Castiel’s face. “Didn’t realise this was on this playlist… Kind of embarrassing, actually.”

Castiel ignored him, and to be fair, Dean made no move to change the song. Instead, Dean’s eyes focused on Castiel’s mouth, watching his tongue dart out to moisten his lips. 

_“And I want to walk with you,_

_on a cloudy day..._

_In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high,_

_So won't you try to come…”_

Castiel’s fingertips tingled as he dragged his hand down Dean’s back, over soft cotton, his palm settling in the subtle curve of his waist when they moved in close. Chest-to-chest, they swayed together, slow dancing in the middle of Castiel’s living room, their socked feet bumping as they shifted over the rug. Dean let Castiel place his hand on his waist, and let him link their fingers at their sides. The warm skin of Dean’s forearm held Castiel’s shoulders close as Norah sang to them.

_“And I want to wake up with the rain,_

_Falling on a tin roof..._

_While I'm safe there in your arms…”_

Their cheeks pressed together, their foreheads leaning. Their stubble brushed as they turned on the rug, soft, shaky breaths exhaled over each other's skin. Castiel felt like he was in a different world where he didn’t even _know_ the feeling of loneliness or unhappiness. The moment was sappy, arguably cheesy, but it felt right after the emotions they’d shared with each other, after baring their pain and expressing their gratitude for one another. So he leaned into the sap and the cheese, and he let Dean kiss him to the sound of Norah Jones tugging on their heart strings. He forgot about Naomi’s interference at dinner, and he found himself hard-pressed at that moment to care about whether Dean would tell anyone about him. That was a worry for another day. 

When the song ended, Dean leaned back, their hands still linked and his forearm still hugging Castiel close. His face was still pale, and sure, he looked tired but his eyes twinkled in amusement. 

“That was the softest, mushiest thing I’ve ever done with anyone,” Dean teased before leaning forward and licking the tip of Castiel’s nose. 

Mid-chuckle, Castiel groaned and scrunched his facial features. “Are you diverting the romantic moment with licking?”

“Shit, you’re on to me—whoa, hey!” Dean tilted his head back and laughed after Castiel retaliated with a wet lick to his cheek. “Gross, don’t turn my tricks around on me.”

“You taste salty,” Castiel said bluntly before pressing his lips together to hold back a chuckle of his own. 

“If you’re into that, I got some other stuff you can lick,” Dean proposed, wiggling his brows. 

While his stomach jolted in excitement, Castiel smiled tightly, half-wincing. “Dean, you’ve...had a long weekend and you’re upset. I would...feel as if I was taking advantage—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean said, dropping his hand from Castiel’s and stepping back. With his brows raised and his finger pointed, Dean explained, “Listen, Cas. Helpin’ me blow off some steam is not taking advantage of me. I’m not drunk, I just—” The tips of his ears were going pink. “—got a little weepy, okay? Don't make it weird, dude. We did a little dance, and now I expect a little love makin’ and gettin’ down tonight.”

Castiel did grin, trying to hide it behind his hand as he scratched his cheek, but he began, “Perhaps tomorrow—”

“Oooookay,” Dean declared loudly, his bow legs bowing further as he ducked and threw his arms around Castiel’s middle, hauling him off his feet and bending him over his shoulder. _Holy shit, he was strong!_

“DEAN!” Castiel cried out hoarsely, his arms flailing to gain some balance or control. “Jesus Christ, PUT ME DOWN! You’ll drop me and—”

It was too late, Dean was using the surprising amount of strength afforded to him by those drool-worthy shoulders and arms to walk them over towards Castiel’s bedroom. 

“I won’t hear any of this,” Dean insisted, clapping his hand against Castiel’s ass. “We’re gonna make up for the weepy tears and sappy dancing with some good ol’ bumpin’ uglies—oof!”

Castiel nearly shrieked—a sound that was usually outside of his vocal range—as they both went careening onto his neatly made bed, sending his fluffy throw onto the floor to join a few other pillows. He bounced onto his back while Dean’s rumbling laughter pressed into his stomach as he crawled up his body. 

“You’re a menace,” Castiel breathed in a huff of laughter, lifting his head from the mattress. He could just _feel_ that his hair was even more of a mess than usual now, thanks to the manhandling. “I was trying to be a gentleman and you—”

“Nipped that in the bud,” Dean said with a grin, pinching Castiel’s nipple to punctuate his words. “If crying and being vulnerable with you means I don’t get sweet lovin’ afterwards, then I’m never gonna squeeze a single tear out in your presence again, angel face.”

Castiel pushed himself onto his elbows, his brows knitted as he stared in horror down at Dean, who was grinning at his waist, his dry fingertips sliding under Castiel's shirt to rub at his hip bones. “Dean, please—I...I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel as if you can’t be vulnerable or that I'm punish you for it. I just—”

“Like I said, Cas,” Dean said firmly, though his eyes softened and his tone was gentle when he continued, “you’re nice. Really nice. Anyone else wouldn’t care, but you do and I get it, but I’m okay, really. This isn’t my first rodeo with my dad being sick. It’s been…” Dean lowered his gaze to Castiel’s belt, fingering the metal there as he murmured quietly, “...it’s been years. Sometimes I buckle and it feels too hard and I just kinda...break, but I’m fine, really.”

Green eyes rose to meet Castiel’s and Dean added, “This night has been really good, Cas. I’d been feeling kinda lost and angry, but hanging out with you tonight, it’s…”

Inspired by the soft, grateful look on Dean’s face, Castiel sat up, his legs still hanging off the side of the bed. By virtue of the movement, Dean ended up kneeling on the side of the bed in between Castiel’s knees, staring up at him with big green eyes that seemed almost unsure or perhaps shy. Sensing that Dean was beginning to ramble—a feeling Castiel was all too familiar with and knew how to spot with precision—Castiel lowered his face and captured Dean’s lips softly.

Dean made a peculiar, but brain-melting noise against his lips—small, like a whimper, like a breath released by accident. The noise sparked more confidence in Castiel and he deepened the kiss with an experimental lick to Dean’s lips. He was rewarded with parting lips and Dean seeming to melt forward into him, his arms winding around his waist.

Dizzyingly, the moment turned into minutes of deep kissing and the neat covers of Castiel’s bed were rumpled and tugged out from under the mattress by the time they found themselves entirely on top of it, Dean somehow ending up on his back with Castiel grinding down against him. Despite Dean’s playful manhandling into the room and their laughs and chuckles as Castiel had been deposited onto the bed earlier, the mood had shifted and their movements were slow and meaningful. 

The minutes were lost, time a concept neither of them cared for, as hands groped for each other. Soon clothing was littered across the bed and dumped onto the floor without a thought. Their breaths were heavy, and every rub or press or massaging of their hands against skin was met with deep moans. Castiel’s heart beat strongly in his chest, but for once it wasn’t from nerves or anxiety, but from being incredibly connected to his partner. Dean’s hand pressed against his chest, right against the _thump-thump-thump_ , and Castiel wondered if he’d felt the way the rhythm had picked up when Dean’s free hand slid under his waistband.

Perhaps something had changed after feelings had been confessed between them on the couch, because when Dean normally came over the air was light and fun, and their sex life was equally so. They fooled around, and curious hands and mouths wandered, but they’d not yet traversed into more...penetrative territory. However, in the dim light from his bedside lamps, and with their clothing entirely disposed of, there was certainly a shift in the air. Castiel wondered if this was the night where they’d cross some boundaries together.

His pondering was quickly answered when Dean broke away, his lips leaving the spot on the inside of Castiel’s thighs where he’d been licking and sucking indulgently, leaving small marks behind on skin over trembling muscle. Castiel watched him tug open the bedside drawer where he stored his lube, and nodded when Dean held it up, his eyes questioning. 

“I’d like to…” Dean said thinly, his hand wrapping around the bottle decidedly, his knees shuffling over the carpet to climb back onto the bed. Castiel just nodded, not wanting to rob Dean of what he wanted to say as he watched words dance on Dean’s tongue, hesitant to manifest. 

_Come on,_ Castiel thought desperately, _just ask me. Or tell me._

“I’d like to—” Dean said again, more firmly, raising his green eyes, shining in uncertainty, watching Castiel’s face. He gestured with the bottle between them. “I’ve just never, uh...y’know...”

For a moment, Castiel found himself drawing a blank. Dean had told him he’d had sex with men before—of course, only a few times, but he had. He just hadn't—

“Oh,” Castiel breathed in understanding. Slowly, he raised himself onto his elbows and murmured, “You don’t have to. I’m more than happy to, um, receive, if you’re uncomfortable with—”

Dean’s ears went red, but he nodded. “Thanks. I...I will, I promise. I want to. I just, uh… Just not now, I guess is what I’m tryna say. I’ve had a fucked up weekend and I wanna give it a shot when...when I’m more relaxed, I guess?”

With a smile and a gentle prying of the bottle from Dean’s hand, Castiel used his thumb to pop the top. He watched Dean’s brows rise in surprise when he sat up and kissed him again, wanting to rid Dean of the uncertainty and pressure he’d put upon himself. When he pulled away, Castiel whispered, “Being penetrated is not a requisite for being gay, Dean.”

“But I want to,” Dean breathed back, impossibly still, his eyes wide. “At least, I think I do? I dream about it, sometimes. With...With you, at least. You...” A swallow. “You make me feel comfortable, Sunshine. If I wanted to, with anyone, it’d be you.”

 _Fuck_ Naomi and her mind tricks. Fuck her, and fuck the insecurities she’d tried to wedge between him and Dean. Who cared if Dean hadn’t told anyone about them? 

Their noses bumped in a teasing nuzzle. “Then we’ll work towards that, but later. For now, I’m more than happy to have you inside me, Dean. I...want you. I’ve wanted you since we met.”

Uncertainty went out like a snuffed candle behind Dean’s eyes and Castiel found himself watching Dean’s lips spread into a grin, those cheeky incisors sparkling in the dim light. 

“Then you can have me while I have you,” Dean spoke against his mouth as he crawled up on top of Castiel, their legs slotting together and their foreheads brushing, soft hair tickling skin. “I’m yours, angel.”


	8. Still Me, With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Kradarua for doing a stellar beta job as usual. And extra special thanks to MalMuses for helping me out with a bit in this chapter where I was really stuck.

_Beep!_

_Beep-beep!_

Castiel lifted his hand from his steering wheel and waved at Dean, who was standing on the curb outside the hospital, squinting around the parking lot and using his hand to try to shield the bright sun from his eyes. 

The horn on Castiel’s old gold Civic was pathetic and almost cartoonish—probably high-pitched when compared to the Impala’s blaring horn—but it got Dean’s attention. The smile of recognition that spread across Dean’s face made Castiel feel a gleeful curl of contentment, and he raised his hand to wave awkwardly. He tried not to stare too hard as Dean walked over, the perfect picture of easy and effortless style; loose jeans and a grey t-shirt under blue plaid. He was a walking wet dream, but Castiel tried to act casual as he leaned over and pushed open the passenger-side door. 

“Thanks for picking me up,” Dean greeted, sliding in and leaning over to plant a kiss on Castiel’s cheek. 

“No problem,” Castiel replied, shrugging. “Hannah’s made plans without me today, so I’m free.”

“Plans without you, huh?” Dean chuckled as they pulled away from the curb and Castiel carefully slid in behind a car leading them away from the hospital entrance and back out onto the road. “I imagine that has something to do with why Sam wanted to leave the visitation early and take the Impala.”

“You let Sam borrow your car?” Castiel asked, his brows raised. 

Dean shrugged as he looked around the cabin, swiping like a cat at the pine tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. “Yeah, well…after our fight on the weekend, we made up and stuff. He offered to stay a bit longer, ‘bout a week and a half, to see dad a few times. He’s trying, so—” Dean popped open Castiel’s glove compartment with interest. “—I let him borrow Baby for a bit.”

“You’re a good brother,” Castiel said kindly, coming to a stop at a light where he took the chance to smile at Dean.

“Nah,” Dean countered, flashing Castiel a grin as he snapped the glove compartment closed, “I’m just grovelling.”

“Perhaps I don’t know enough,” Castiel murmured, driving into the intersection as the light went green, and Dean started flipping the air vents up and down, “but I think you had valid reasons to be upset with him, as he did with you.”

“Eh,” Dean shrugged, sliding the air open and closed. “I was a dick, I said some dumb shit so… Anyway—”

“Why are you touching all of my things?”

“So sue me, I’ve never been in your car before!”

As Castiel made a right turn, Dean was sliding on a pair of Castiel’s sunglasses that’d been tucked into a cup holder along with his change. Unable to stop it, Castiel smiled big, chuckling at the shit-eating grin Dean tossed his way. 

“What?” Dean asked playfully.

Castiel focused on not crashing the car, though it was tempting to stare at Dean all day. “Nothing.” _Those sunglasses look good on you._ “Where did you need me to drop you off again? I’m sorry, I know you told me, but Hannah was talking to me at the same time and she’s quite demanding of one’s attention when she’s talking.”

“No big,” Dean said with a wave of his hand. He slid Castiel’s glasses up onto his head and gestured to the highway. “It’s only like two minutes away. Jump on the freeway going west ‘til you hit downtown. You know where Main St. and Apple Way meet?” 

“Mmm,” Castiel nodded, tugging a water bottle from between his legs and taking a sip. “Yes. Isn’t that where the infamous fro-yo place is on the corner? The one where—”

“—you can put Cheetos in your fro-yo? Yup.”

“Disgusting,” Castiel murmured as the car rumbled and roared in response to his foot on the ignition. “That combination is an abomin—”

Castiel was abruptly cut off by the shrill ring of his phone. His eyes flickered down at the second cup holder where the phone rattled against the plastic, and his heart sank as Dean paused his nosy poking through Castiel’s radio presets, glancing down at the phone too.

“You gonna get that?” Dean asked with a cheery smile. He changed the radio station and began fiddling with the temperature knobs.

“No,” Castiel said firmly, turning the phone over onto its front so he wouldn’t have to see Naomi’s stupid face rippling across his screen. 

Something about his tone gave him away—maybe it was how gruff and annoyed he sounded—because Dean sat back in his seat and snorted. “Trouble in Naomi-dise?”

“We’re...not speaking.”

“Dunno, Cas. Kinda sounds like _she’s_ speaking, but you’re not.”

Castiel glanced over at Dean, a frown on his face, though he pulled his eyes back to the road. He eased off the gas, realizing he was speeding angrily towards the car in front of them. 

“That's it; speaking _is_ her problem,” Castiel said shortly. “She should mind her own business.”

Dean rolled down the window as they eased onto the off-ramp. The wind blew his hair around his forehead softly and he grinned, dropping Castiel’s sunglasses onto his nose.

“That sounds kinda harsh, Cas,” Dean chuckled, lurching forward a bit as Castiel’s car came to an abrupt stop at an intersection. 

Castiel sighed, tilting his head back against the headrest, eyeing the license plate in front of them: _‘ILUVCATZ’_. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right,” Dean said, raising his hands in surrender, though he smiled easily, his lips twisting in amusement. “It’s just—you guys seem really close. Shame to see you fight…as ice-cold as I find her.” Dean paused to wince. “No offence.”

Instead of replying, Castiel simply rolled his eyes and turned onto a side street. When they reached the end, he pointed past Dean to a busy intersection. “Is that where you want me to drop you off? Fro-yo?”

“Nah.” Dean grinned. “I’m all fro-yo-and-cheetos’d out since they ran that article in the paper about it. It was cute for a second but then the heartburn was unreal. How about we drive past it onto Main and I show you my store? Kevin wants to leave early, so I’m just working his last hour. The store is always dead before close so it’ll be a good chance to show you around.”

In excitement, Castiel’s heart dropped down through his chest and nestled in beside his stomach, where butterflies flung themselves against its walls and sprung free to fly around his ribcage. He tried not to smile, but his cheeks cramped as he fought the urge. “Really?”

To his surprise, Dean laughed. “Dude, ouch? Yes, really. I’ve been wanting to invite you to hang out there, but there’s always a bunch of staff around…”

People. There would be people Dean knew to witness them together. The flurry of excitement in his chest died a little, but Castiel smiled tightly anyway.

Dean went on, gesturing to the side of the street. “It’s pretty dead on Tuesdays, so this is a good time. You want to? Oh, you can park there. Right out front, it’s where I usually park the Impala.”

The civic slid into the spot and Castiel turned off the car. His emotions were a mess in his gut—he was excited that Dean wanted to show him the store, but dejected because it was only happening due to a dead night and no other staff… Still, he leaned over to peer out the window, curious to see what the store looked like—

He and Dean jumped in the silence of the car when his phone went off again. With a groan, Castiel picked it up and turned it over, his lips pursing as a picture of Naomi rippled across his screen again. 

When he looked up, grouchy, Dean was grinning. His green eyes flickered down to the phone and he nodded at it with his chin as he pushed open the door. “Answer the call, see what she wants. I’m gonna let Kevin free and when you’re ready, come inside.”

Castiel exhaled heavily as the door thunked closed behind Dean and, pouting, he watched his ass in those light jeans until those bow legs disappeared through the doorway.

After glaring at Naomi’s picture, he clicked the green button on the phone and raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello? ‘ _Hello’_?” Naomi’s hiss was so cold Castiel felt like the side of his face beside the phone was covered in frost. “You’ve been ignoring me for days. What the fuck is going on?”

“I do _not_ feel like talking to you.”

“Oh, my _God._ Castiel, seriously? You’re angry at me? For what?”

Castiel turned to roll down the window, irrationally wanting to throw his phone out and watch it get plowed over by the busy traffic. Instead, he licked at his lips and rolled the window back up as he growled into the phone, “What you pulled at dinner the other night? It was cruel, Naomi. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to—”

Naomi scoffed so hard on the other end of the line that he momentarily wondered if she’d choked on her own bullshit. “What I ‘pulled’? Excuse me? You mean how I did nothing but confirm that Dean wants you as nothing but a fling and does _not_ feel the same pathetic, obsessive puppy love that you do? I’m trying to _protect_ you. It hurts me to see you toyed with—”

A flame erupted in Castiel’s chest and he felt his skin get hot. He pulled the phone away from his ear and snapped into it, “If you don’t like seeing me toyed with, why are you trying to pull on every string that might hurt me?”

“How _dare_ you? This is what I get for trying to make you see that you’re wearing rose-coloured glasses? He hasn’t told a single fucking soul about you, not even his own _brother._ He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s seeing you—”

Castiel winced, peering up at the store, watching Kevin swing out of the front doors and walk down the street. He hadn’t even glanced his way. He had no idea he was there.

“God, I don’t even know why I try,” Naomi growled. Castiel heard dishes being angrily thrown into a sink and clattering together on the other end of the line. “I just… I’m so hurt that you’d ignore me for some guy.”

Swallowing the confusing lump of emotions in this throat, Castiel choked out, “He’s not ‘some guy’, Naomi. I… This is going really well for me, why can’t you just be happy?”

He knew why. He’d always known why. Still, it hurt.

Naomi’s sigh came after a few long pauses. “I want to be happy for you. I’m only worried.”

Castiel didn’t reply to that. He swallowed thickly and sat back against his seat, tracing his finger around the steering wheel. He knew she wasn’t lying, well, not entirely. “I...am upset with you, Naomi. I don’t want to talk to you right now. You’ve been unsupportive. A-And I’m busy right now.”

“Busy?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied firmly, looking up at the doors of the store, the vintage, paint-chipped doors with handsome iron knobs. “Dean is showing me his store today.”

Again, Naomi breathed loudly into the phone. “So does this mean you’ll go all doe-eyed and weak-kneed and end up sucking his cock in the stockroom?”

“You are being crude and cruel—”

“So you’re not coming to Uriel’s show tonight?” Naomi barrelled over him, her voice smooth like venom. “Or are you? Will we be seeing Dean there?”

Right. Castiel raised his hand to his face, rubbing at the aching crease between his brows. Over dinner, Uriel had invited them all to one of his amateur comedy nights at a club downtown. He supposed this was the downside of introducing groups of friends...or...even having a ‘group’ of friends at all. Everyone was going and he was going to look like a dick for turning it down.

“No,” Castiel said, on autopilot before he paused and then added, “Maybe. I haven’t had occasion to ask Dean yet.”

“His brother is going to be there.”

Castiel pushed open his door, narrowly avoiding being smoked by a Mini Cooper, and slammed it closed behind him. Striding around his golden car, he walked up to Dean’s store—the cute, vintage record store with ‘WINCHESTER MUSIC & BOOKS EST. 1974’ written above the doors in bold, bright, newly painted white lettering—and growled under his breath. 

“Naomi, I don’t care. If Dean and I want to go tonight, we will. And if not, then we won’t. Don't call me again.”

“ _Why?”_ Naomi asked, sounding shrill in indignation, though he could sense panic.

Approaching the doors, Castiel grasped the handle and gazed through the window. Dean looked up from the till behind an old, charming wooden counter and winked.

“Because,” Castiel said flatly, “you’re acting like a real bitch.”

With that, he hung up and slid his phone into his back pocket as he wrenched open the doors and walked inside. Climbing up two steps onto aged, dark hardwood flooring, Castiel took a hefty inhale of the scent of old books, plastic CD casing, and worn leather.

“Turn that frown upside down, Sunshine,” Dean said loudly, calling to him over Taylor Swift _’_ s voice blaring from the radio beside him. He looked up from a handful of cash, flipping over all the bills to face the same way as he counted under his breath. “How’d it go with Naomi?”

Castiel wandered between the wooden bins of vinyl records, running his hands over the cardboard sleeves and staring around at the store. The walls were covered in posters, old and new, some worn and faded from the sun shining through the front windows, while others were new and shiny, placed on hard plastic. 

“Not good,” Castiel called back, his lips spreading into a shy smile as he trailed his fingers over the back of a puffy brown leather couch that looked like it was dragged right out of Dean’s childhood. He spotted crayon scribbles on the bottom of one of the legs, and pictured a small Sam and Dean wreaking havoc on their parents' furniture, gleefully drawing ugly dinosaurs and stick men with three strands of hair. 

“She’s worried about me,” Castiel admitted, glancing over at Dean after peering around the small seating area in the center of the big store. 

“Oh yeah?” he heard Dean ask as Castiel turned his back, slipping in between shelving units that stored books and board games.

“Yes.” Castiel picked up an antique edition of Scrabble and smiled, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the box. “She—” he paused, feeling suddenly brave while hidden between the shelves. “—is jealous.”

“Jealous?” Dean laughed incredulously. Castiel bent his knees and peered over the books through the shelving, catching Dean’s eye as he raised a brow at him. “What’s she jealous of?”

“You,” Castiel admitted, walking back out into the open. He slid his hands into his pockets and finally approached the counter, leaning on it and wincing. “She’s jealous of you.”

“What?” Dean shut the till and leaned on the counter too, his face a mere foot away. His eyes flickered down to Castiel’s lips and with a smarmy smirk, he asked, “Why would she be jealous?”

Ugh. _Here goes._

Tracing his finger over a dark stain on the countertop and dragging his nail around an old, worn sticker of the Metallica logo, Castiel murmured, “Because she and I slept together.”

When he peered up through pinched eyes and with a full-faced grimace, Dean was gaping at him. 

“Uh...what?” Dean blurted out, his eyes a bit wide. “Recently?”

His own eyes widening, Castiel jolted, his hand starting out over the counter, gripping Dean’s arm and laughing in shock. “Oh God, no. _No_.”

Curiously—and to Castiel’s relief—Dean’s shoulders sagged and he exhaled. “Oh, thank fuck.”

“ _No,_ ” Castiel emphasised, giving Dean’s arm a squeeze before it slipped down and pressed against the counter. He couldn’t believe he was telling anyone about this, much less Dean. “We were stupid. Twenty-five. We’d drank a bit too much after one of her work functions and…” The memory left a lump in his throat still, even all these years later. “A-And we slept together.”

“Weird,” Dean breathed. "So weird."

 _No fucking kidding._ “Yeah,” Castiel admitted, rubbing at his face, hoping he wasn’t as red as he was warm. “As soon as we, um...finished, I burst into tears. I imagine it wasn’t the most ideal situation to do so, but I told her I was gay.”

Dean groaned. “Oh no.”

“Yeah. She wasn’t happy at first. She cried a bit too, seemed angry. Anyway—” Judging by the twisted scrunch of Dean’s features, Castiel needed to wrap this up. He shrugged and pulled his hands back, sliding them into his pockets. “She came around eventually and assured me it was fine, that it was nothing, that we wouldn’t talk about it ever again, but she’s been...admittedly sharp with any guy I’ve ever shown interest in since. I think she’s just protective—”

“‘Jealous’ was the word you used before,” Dean reminded him, his lips twitching as he picked up a bean bag with the Led Zeppelin logo and tossed it from one hand to the other. “Jealous.”

“Yes, but not like _that,”_ Castiel emphasized, his insides jostled in alarm for a moment. “She’s just jealous of anyone getting close to me, she’s not interested in me romantically.”

“She’s territorial,” Dean offered, shrugging and waving the beanie bag at him. “She’s like a cat.”

“She’s like a cat,” Castiel concurred, echoing Dean’s observation with a nod and a scrunch of his nose. “Claws and all.”

“Definitely,” Dean chuckled.

On the counter beside the old till, Taylor Swift’s voice faded from the speakers of an old boombox (covered in band stickers, much like the wood counter) and Gerard Way’s trembling cries emerged softly in its wake. Dean glanced over at the radio, then back at Castiel, his eyes soft and his smile softer. 

Castiel smiled back, shifting on his feet a bit. They stood in silence for a moment as My Chemical Romance told them all about The Black Parade. 

“I don’t know why I told you any of that,” Castiel admitted in a low rumble, pulling his hand from his pocket and scratching at his stubble. “I’ve never told anyone about that time with Naomi. I think she’d prefer it almost much as I would, that it was kept a secret. It’s a rather embarrassing and traumatizing memory, in all honesty—”

_Dear God, stop talking. Stop oversharing—_

Despite Dean’s smile spreading into a grin, Castiel blumbled on. “And I-I’m not sure why I felt the compulsion to admit I cried—”

“Dude,” Dean chuckled, reaching up to bite casually on his nails, his green eyes glittering in amusement. “It’s fine, really.”

Still, the realization that _oh, God,_ he’d told someone about sleeping with and coming out to Naomi—one of the most terrifying moments of his life—made him feel hot, suddenly. Warm in the cheeks and boiling under his t-shirt, Castiel choked out, wide-eyed, “I overshared. I always overshare. Which is ironic, since I usually don’t speak much—of course, when I do, it’s always too much, too blunt—”

Dean’s hand reached up and his fingers curled around Castiel’s hand where it scratched at his face. He tugged it back down onto the counter, where his cool fingers brushed over his palm like he was going to do one of the gentlest, most tender palm-readings of all time.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Dean said quietly, still smiling, although with a strange wince to his eyes, “the first time I came out to anyone, it was through some drunk as fuck bawling.”

That was not possible. Dean was a smile with arms and legs, a ray of sunshine in ripped jeans and plaid. Disbelieving and skeptical, sure that Dean was only saying that to make him feel better, Castiel accidentally laughed, the low, raspy noise tumbling out of his mouth. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better, Dean.”

“I wish I was lying,” Dean murmured, his finger drawing a circle into Castiel’s palm. With a heave of his shoulders, Dean sighed and dropped his gaze to follow the path of his tracing. “My brother, and Charlie, and my old best friend Lee all threw me a party at Lee’s place for my thirtieth birthday. It was really cool, ‘cause we hadn’t really had time to celebrate our birthdays together since Sam moved and since my dad got sick. I usually spent my birthday with my dad, though he forgot most of the time. The party was really cool, it was like, people I hadn’t seen in years and my staff and best friends, but it still managed to feel really intimate even though there was a house full of like forty people.”

“That was nice of them to do for you,” Castiel piped in kindly, hoping his tone made up for accidentally laughing at Dean’s confession.

“Yeah,” Dean huffed, shaking his head a bit. “It was so nice that I let myself get pretty fucking drunk. By like midnight, I was pretty wasted. A few of our close friends went into Lee’s bathroom and ripped a few hefty bong tokes—” Dean glanced up. “Don’t judge, HR.”

“No judgement,” Castiel said quickly, raising his free hand in surrender. 

“Well—” Dean went on, his eyes glancing around the empty store before he dropped his gaze again to look at their joined hands. His pointer finger dragged over each of Castiel’s knuckles, leaving his skin buzzing delightfully. “Everyone kinda left the room and Lee and I ended up hanging in the bathroom like responsible thirty-year-olds. I don’t really know what happened, but one second we were killing ourselves laughing about Charlie’s ex Dorothy buying a dog named Toto, and the next second, I was kissing him. My best fucking friend.”

The initial light-hearted tone of Dean’s voice as he recalled the memory had been deceiving. It dawned on him that this wasn’t a good memory when Dean seemed to pause and his breath audibly caught in his throat. Feeling unsure how to comfort him, Castiel said nothing.

But Dean’s face tightened a bit and his eyes glanced up, bare and obviously pained, though he tried to mask it with one of those crooked smiles, his canine teeth flashing. “He kissed me back, maybe just to be polite. He was always a pretty open dude, I guess. But I fucking ran. No one even knew I was leaving initially, but I guess Lee saw that I’d freaked out and told my brother. I just remember hyperventilating and grabbing the keys from my coat in the kitchen. I know I shouldn’t have driven. Hell, the fucking Impala probably left tire marks down the street.”

“Dean…”

He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, but Castiel did raise his palm and curl his fingers around Dean’s. It seemed to help. Dean’s smile lost a bit of tightness.

“I was too fucked up to be driving, but I only made it down the street. Parked the Impala by a park around the corner—I probably parked her like a complete jackass, honestly, and I don’t think I even turned her off. I just took off into this small bit of forest and sat on a tree stump and bawled.” Dean didn’t laugh and the amusement—the tiny speck of it that’d remained—drained from his face. “I guess Sam ran after the car. Him and Charlie and Lee. They found me and I dunno, I was so drunk. Snotty and weeping, I couldn’t even speak at first. I remember Sam hugging me and trying to get me to talk, and telling me off for driving drunk, obviously. He’s Sam, it’d be weird if he didn’t tell me off for it.”

“That’s...very upsetting,” Castiel murmured, his lips pursing sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

Dean waved a hand at his chest, still not looking up. “I just kept saying ‘I’m gay, I’m sorry’. I thought I’d ruined everything and lost everyone, which was stupid. Lee was chill, and Charlie’s—”

“Gay as a unicorn?” Castiel supplied, offering a smile that Dean didn’t see, though he did smirk a bit at their joined hands.

“She’s gay as fuck, yeah. And Sam. Well, he’s Sam. He’s a good kid. Anyway—” Finally, Dean looked up and grinned, though for the first time, Castiel felt uneasy about the smile. Something was strange about it—no, he realised suddenly, it wasn't strange, it was fake. A fake smile looked out of place on Dean's face. It didn't meet his eyes. “Water under the bridge. And now we’re even; a secret for a secret.”

Castiel, while at most times a bit clueless, got the distinct feeling that the water was not under the bridge and that Dean hadn’t told his secret to cancel out his own, but rather that the story of his coming out was something he’d been burning to tell someone, someone who might’ve understood.

Still, Castiel wouldn’t push it. Instead, he gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and returned Dean’s smile “Thank you for telling me.”

“Well,” Dean huffed, standing up straight and easing his hand out of their grip to instead pull behind his back as he stretched his spine, "wouldn’t want you to feel too awkward for crying after sex with Naomi.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “It sounds so much worse when you say it like that.”

“It’s pretty bad,” Dean whispered playfully, scrunching his face. “I imagine she’s as bossy and mean in bed as she is in person.”

Castiel bowed his head and chuckled quietly—for appearances. In truth, Dean couldn’t be more wrong, and that’s what hurt almost as much as the fact that he’d been barely holding himself together the entire time he’d been with her; she’d been gentle and passionate, and if he’d been into women, it might’ve been a good experience. 

It’d been a side of her he hadn’t seen before and that haunted him too, settled in his stomach, the guilt weighing heavily.

“So she’d basically called to tell you I’m a loser you shouldn’t waste your time on?” Dean asked with seeming amusement as he walked around the counter and out onto the shop floor, though his eyes flickered across Castiel’s face as if hunting for a sign that Naomi might’ve convinced him. 

“No, she just wanted to see if we’re going to this comedy show Uriel’s in tonight. I’d meant to ask if you wanted to go...” Castiel said at first, then he paused and added, “And, yes, she’s concerned about you and me. She…”

Did he tell him? 

Dean’s brow twitched, giving away his unease. He stopped a couple feet away, his fingers drumming on the top of the till, watching Castiel cautiously. “What? You can tell me, I won’t be butt-hurt.”

“She…” Again, Castiel scratched at his face, his doubts bubbling up from his stomach and pooling at the back of his mouth like acid. Perhaps Naomi had managed to get under his skin a little (again). Taking a careful breath through his nose, he admitted, trying to sound casual, “She’s concerned you’re using me. Sam...may have hinted that you haven’t mentioned me at all. Dean, does he not know about us?”

Maybe he imagined it, maybe Dean looked a bit pale. His eyes flickered to the door and back to Castiel, a strange expression on his face like his features were simultaneously looser and full of tension. 

The silence dragged on for just a beat too long to be comfortable.

“Nevermind,” Castiel murmured, giving his head a firm shake. “You don't have to tell anyone. Just forget I mentioned anything. We don’t have to go to Uriel’s thing, especially if Sam doesn’t know. He’ll be there with Hannah—”

“It’s not personal,” Dean said quickly, his tone a bit odd; steady but thin. 

“Of course,” Castiel replied with another tight nod. “Of course, no, that’s fine. I didn’t meant to presume we’re—”

“I’ve just never—”

Unable to stop himself, Castiel blurted out, “I’ve never seen your place, or met your friends, other than at the music festival, of course. I’ve never even heard of Lee—”

Dean stepped back, his mouth gaping a bit. His hand went up to his hair and he scrunched it a bit, the other hand waving up at the ceiling. “No, you’re right. I should just expl—”

Oh, God. This was too awkward. It’d been a mistake to bring this up. Such a huge fucking mistake. Naomi had won, she’d gotten under his skin, made him doubt _again_ what was real and legitimate. His emotions flip-flopping, Castiel raised his hands and rasped kindly, “Really, it’s—you don’t have to explain.”

But Dean’s mouth was tight and his throat bobbed a bit, his eyes still flickering around, unable to meet Castiel’s eye. He was talking with his hands, a tic Castiel had noticed was characteristic of Dean when he was nervous. Dean gestured between them and breathed a stiff laugh. “I’ve never had a, y’know—”

A partner? Boyfriend?

...A casual secret fling? A fling with someone so embarrassing he didn’t want to tell anyone? It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Castiel that other than their hand-holding over the counter, Dean hadn’t displayed much affection in his store. No kiss, or even a hug. No greetings like they had at Castiel’s apartment door or in Sioux City or on a date in the parts of town where they didn’t know anyone.

They stared at each other. Dean licked at his lips and Castiel just kept smiling tightly. 

Saved by the bell above the door, a customer walked in and they both sagged like a puppeteer orchestrating the tension between them had cut them loose.

“I’m just—” Dean pointed at the customer. “You can sit on the couches or look around or, like, change the radio, or whatever. I’ll be back.”

Dean swept past him, and behind his back, Castiel heard him put on the charm. He looked over his shoulder and watched Dean lay the charisma on thick with the woman who’d come in and wandered toward the board game section. He watched Dean grin—the crooked one that flashed those pointy canines Castiel found so endearing—and noticed him speak lower, his voice flirty.

Trying not to look too much into it (and failing), he wandered away from them, far away to the opposite corner of the shop. Initially, he flipped through a row of old CDs but he felt like he wasn’t seeing the covers at all, and when he looked up to stare at the wall above the rock section, he couldn't remember which artists he’d just been staring at.

Exhaling the tension from his chest, he looked around at the brick wall. There were old street names and neon beer signs and retro band posters. He wandered along the CD bins and distracted himself with trying to read the tour dates on a few t-shirts they had pinned to the brick. He heard Dean lead the woman to the cash and after a few words, the till slammed closed and the bell above the door chimed again, announcing her departure.

They were alone again and he heard Dean’s footsteps over the creaky wood.

Castiel kept his eyes on the framed pictures to the left of the t-shirts. Quickly, he noticed pictures of celebrities posing with the same couple, a beautiful blonde and a tall, boyish-faced man with dimples and curly dark brown hair. For a moment, Castiel stared at them, wondering why they looked familiar—maybe they were celebrities—but then he glanced back at Dean and realised…

“Those are your parents,” Castiel breathed, pointing up at the woman with Dean’s nose and chin, and then over at his father, who had Dean’s eye shape and hair colour. 

Just behind him, Dean chuckled. “Yeah. My mom and dad. They used to go to every freakin’ show they could. Met a bunch of celebs, were even friends with a few.”

“Dean, you’re the spitting image of your mother,” Castiel noticed fondly, staring at Dean’s father smiling at him from a side-hug with John Bon Jovi. When he looked back at Dean, he noticed he was gazing at the same picture, his eyes sad. “And Sam? He’s got quite a striking resemblance to your father.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed quietly, staring at his father. “Funny how that worked out.”

They fell into silence again, staring at the different pictures. Then, Castiel cleared his throat and asked, “You were visiting your father today. How is he doing?”

“Not too hot,” Dean murmured. “He has good days and bad days, though lately there have been more bad days. He was pretty okay yesterday when Sam went to see him, but, uh, dunno. He was complaining about feeling dizzy today. It’s nothing new, but it freaks me out every time there’s a new or worse symptom. He’s still convinced it’s his meds, keeps blaming the nurses and doctors and stuff.” Dean cleared his throat. “You want me to show you around?”

Thankful for the distraction, Castiel turned around to face Dean, realising he was much closer than he thought. With barely a foot between them, Castiel could smell Dean’s soft cologne and tried not to inhale too obviously. “That’d be nice,” he admitted with a nod. “I’ve heard so much about it. It’s...quite handsome. And I think the books and games are a nice touch.”

At that, Dean’s lips spread into an easy grin. The tension around his eyes was there, etched into the crows feet, but it was nice to see his smile reach the forest green of his irises. “Awesome. Come on.”

* * *

The gold Civic rumbled under Castiel’s feet as he sat behind the wheel, waiting for Dean to close up shop. Not a single customer had come in after the one woman, so Dean had taken Castiel for an extensive tour of his store; he showed him the backroom, the stockroom, explained each section of the store, and toured him through every odd knick-knack and old band sticker he had hidden behind the counter. 

He explained that most of the shop’s furniture was original, made by his father and left over from how his mother had laid it out (for the most part). For every picture of his parents, Dean had a story that brought a twinkle to his eye and left his smile lingering on his lips for minutes after. He’d explained the few merchandising changes he’d made, and even pulled out some of his favourite albums to play on an old record player given to him by his grandmother. 

He even told the story about the store’s logo; his mother (like his younger brother Sam) had gone through a wiccan phase when she was a teenager and insisted on the pentagram despite her father’s stern disapproval. The rays of sunlight signified ‘sunshine’, a nickname his father John had called his mother during their early courting years. The ‘only time they acted in love’, Dean had admitted with a bitter snort: apparently, their marriage had only been perfect to his father _after_ she’d died.

Despite the awkward start to the store visit, by the time the final hour closed, Dean and Castiel had been seated on the plushy old leather couches, their hands around mismatched chipped mugs of coffee with band logos on them. They sat comfortably with their legs pulled up onto the couches and Castiel listened quietly as Dean told him all about Mary Winchester and her vision for her store. He also learned she’d died in a house fire while John Winchester took his sons on a hunting trip. The accident destroyed their family, caused tension between John and his three sons. Adam, Dean’s half-brother, took off after Mary’s death. Sam went off to college, and Dean was left to care for his father whose health had taken a sharp decline soon after.

It was hard to stay mad at Dean after hearing about so much loss. So, Castiel let his doubts go (kind of), pushing aside the need to know why he was being kept a secret. Maybe it just...didn’t matter, not when he was clearly being let in behind the fortified wall of charisma and jokes that he could now clearly see were just coping mechanisms for Dean.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, Castiel thought to himself over and over as he bounced his leg and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. It didn’t ma—

“Hey,” Dean said as he slid into the passenger seat, grinning and leaning over to capture Castiel’s lips in an eager kiss. When he pulled back, pausing a few inches away, he chuckled. “Sorry that took so long. Kev called because he thought he’d forgotten his phone. Turns out, he was _on_ his phone.”

“Not a problem,” Castiel rumbled, licking his lips that tasted like Dean. Clearing his throat and reaching to shift the gear into drive, Castiel looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic as he pulled out of the parking spot and asked, “Where would you like me to drop you off?” _Since I have no idea where you live._

He pulled out into the street while Dean hummed in thought.

“I forgot to take my meds so I’m feelin’ kind of off—”

Castiel raised a brow to himself, pulling up to the intersection. He hadn’t had any idea Dean even took medication.

“—If you’re okay stopping by my place, I can run up and grab ‘em. U-Unless you’re going to Uriel’s thing tonight? If not, I was thinkin’ maybe we can, uh, hang out? If you want, obviously—”

Of _course_ he wanted to. Castiel exhaled the tension through his lips and smiled tightly, glancing over at Dean. “Sure. I’d like that. I’ll see him perform another time. Hannah can tell me if he’s even funny.”

It was a stupid remark; of course Uriel was funny. 

Dean swallowed loudly but then nodded, smiling as well, though the lines around his eyes were deep. “Cool. Make a right then.”

Dean lived a one-minute drive away from the store in a duplex beside a laundromat, and Castiel, feeling dejected by the doubts itching at the back of his head, didn’t ask to come up. The Impala was parked out front, meaning Sam was home, probably with Hannah, getting ready for Uriel’s show. Dean wouldn’t want anyone knowing he was with Castiel, presumably. 

So, Castiel simply quirked a corner of his lip at Dean when he promised to be right back and stared through the front window of the laundromat, watching a load of laundry whirl around in one of the rickety machines.

The car ride from Dean’s to Castiel’s place was normal enough--well, except for the weird as fuck tension. Castiel tried to make conversation and Dean answered casually enough except for the weird tightness around his eyes that sometimes made it into his voice. When they arrived at Castiel’s condo, he realised he was out of beer or whiskey and cursed himself for it--if anything could ease the mood, it would’ve been a bit of alcohol. Hell, he’d even take a vodka cooler, which normally reminded him of his first time being drunk and secretly throwing up blue-raspberry all down the brick on the side of his mom’s house. 

So they drank from water bottles and sat on opposite ends of the couch as Friends played on the TV and Jack snored from the carpet.

The quiet broke as Dean set down his water on the end table by the armrest with a clink. Castiel looked over to see Dean run his hands over the thighs of his jeans and watched his tongue worry over his bottom lip.

“So what was Uriel’s act all about?”

Castiel drank from his water deeply, then set it aside on his end table too, picking up the remote to lower the volume of the TV. “Not sure. I only know he does amateur comedy,” Castiel explained in a quiet rumble, glancing over at Dean. “He’s the funniest person I know, so I imagine he’s quite good. Sometimes he practices his jokes on me at work, but I haven’t ever been to one of his shows, so I can’t be sure if other people laugh at his material like I do.”

Dean’s brows raised and he looked a bit relieved. “You’ve never gone to any of his shows?”

“No,” Castiel murmured, turning back to the TV and pretending to be interested in the storyline. “I’ve never wanted to go alone.”

“Oh.” Castiel heard Dean pick up his glass again and drink a few gulps, before he looked over and saw him drag his hand over his lips. A bit red in the face, Dean glanced down at his glass and said, “I guess you were looking forward to going with a group of friends tonight, then, huh?”

For a brief moment, Castiel considered lying to spare Dean’s feelings. But he usually tried to avoid lying, so instead, he simply nodded his head once and admitted, “Yes. I often feel guilty for not going to Uriel’s events. He’s a good friend to me, it feels like a one-sided effort sometimes.”

Dean turned his glass in his hand, watching the base of it curl around a knob in his knee. “He does seem like a good friend,” Dean said distractedly. “You should try to make it out to one of his shows. Friends like those...you, uh, keep ‘em, y’know?”

Unsure why it bubbled up, Castiel nodded and cleared his throat, blurting out, “Like Lee?”

_Lee: the friend you’ve never let me meet. One of your so-called oldest, best friends._

The glass on Dean’s knee stopped turning.

Trying to appear as though he was interested in whatever was happening on TV, Castiel quickly glanced at Dean but returned his gaze to the show. “You just don’t mention him much.”

“I, uh, stopped talking to him,” Dean admitted quietly. “After that night at my birthday, I didn’t have the guts to face him. I blocked his number and deleted his emails, and refused to see ‘im. He’s tried to reach out throughout the last year and a bit—either through Sam or Charlie—but I dunno, I can’t face him.”

“But you’re out now,” Castiel countered, asking the question with a tilt of his head and narrowed eyes. “What’s the harm in seeing him? You said he was…’chill’.”

Dean’s lips were pressed together tightly as he stared at the TV, the tips of his fingers around his nail beds turning white as they pressed into the glass. After a long, heavy pause, Dean grunted, “Dude was my best friend for twenty years. He used to sleep over at my house when we were kids, and my dad would take us to wrestling shows, and like… I dunno, we did _everything_ together. We were like brothers. And then I just cut him off, because I was humiliated.” Dean raised his glass, but the rim hovered in front of his lips as he seemed to get lost in thought. With a small huff, he muttered, “Stopped talkin’ to him. I couldn’t go back now, try to reach out again. He probably hates me.”

“Mmm,” was all that Castiel could say. It seemed like Dean was still angry about Lee; Castiel felt a tension there, anyway, and didn’t want to push it. He didn’t want to give Dean any reason to push him away too.

So he went back to watching Friends on TV. Ross was bellowing something about a sandwich, but Castiel couldn’t remember for the life of him why.

It seemed like Dean had gone back to watching TV, too. At least, it seemed like that for a minute or so as he drank the rest of his water and said nothing. 

But then, with an uncomfortable shift on the couch, Dean murmured, “You probably think I’m a coward.”

Okay, forget Ross and his usual bullshit. Castiel turned towards Dean, his brow furrowed and the corners of his lips tilted down into a confused scowl. “I don’t think you’re a coward, Dean. Why would you—”

“I’m gonna get some more water,” Dean said abruptly, getting to his feet and waggling the glass in the air. 

Dejected, Castiel slumped back against the couch, hating every minute of this hang out with Dean. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and tension-filled—what was happening? The coiling ball of anxiety in his chest told him that this was all his fault. He should never have brought up his doubts...

Strangely, though, Dean paused mid-way to the kitchen. Castiel watched his back with a tilt of his head as Dean turned his glass in his hand, the square of his shoulders tightening.

Then, Dean turned back around and Castiel’s stomach dropped at the lost look etched onto Dean’s features.

“Dean, what—” he half-rose to his feet, but Dean raised a hand.

“Listen, Cas...” Dean began tightly.

Feeling the blood drain from his face, Castiel dropped back down quickly. His chest immediately felt tight and his throat closed up; this was it, Dean was going to break up with him. God, he felt so stupid. He’d let Naomi get into his head, he’d opened his stupid mouth to bring up his doubts to Dean. Now he was being dumped in his own home, sitting on the couch like a statue, mortified about the heartache about to hit him like a freight train. Maybe he should’ve just accepted their secret fling and shut up about it.

“I just need…” Dean trailed off for a moment, raising a hand to rub at his mouth. Once it dropped to his side and rolled into a fist, Dean said thinly, the dips under his eyes suddenly looking strained, “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about what you brought up at the store.”

“I should’ve kept it to myself,” Castiel said, feeling his heart pounding somewhere around his belly button. God, why was it so hard to breathe all of a sudden? 

“No. God, no, Cas. Damn, stop. Just...listen,” Dean said quickly, giving his head a firm shake and raising a hand again. “I just need you to hear what I gotta say, because I don’t want you walking around thinking this is about you, ‘cause it’s not.”

 _It’s not you, it’s me._ Just like a fucking movie. Castiel swallowed hard and nodded, but behind his eyes began to sting. It was with a concerted effort that he didn’t actually start crying.

Dean’s hand lowered as he visibly hesitated, then he turned it and pressed it to his chest. “It’s me, man. It’s all me, okay? I’m not...like you think I am.”

If Dean told him he was straight, Castiel was going to act in uncharacteristic violence and knock him on his ass.

“I-I’m… I just— Listen, I—”

“Are you straight?” 

“What? No!”

“Then what?” Castiel choked out, gesturing at him. “Just tell me.”

Dean’s eyes were a bit wide. “Cas, I’m just not like you think I am, like everyone thinks I am, okay? I’m fucked up, I’m all fucked up inside. I want to be—I’m fucking struggling. I’m really struggling. You don’t think I’d want to be out and happy, you don’t think I’d want to go out with you—?”

“But you _don’t_ want to,” Castiel supplied, trying to help Dean. He was clearly fumbling through whatever he was trying to explain and failing. But at this point, Castiel was frustrated. He just wanted Dean to be honest and spit it out.

Dean took a few steps forward and set down the glass in his hand. For the first time tonight, Castiel noticed Dean's hands were shaking and felt a tiny pang of guilt for interrupting, for not being patient enough to just listen. 

“How am I fucking this up so badly?” Dean whispered to himself, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. With his eyes squeezed shut, his voice louder and clearer, Dean explained, “All my life I tried to overcompensate. I told everyone about it every time I got a number or fucked a girl, or went on a date. I-I never came to or left a party alone, I was never single. I spent every fucking waking moment trying to show everyone how completely straight I was. I walked and talked and ate and slept being someone I wasn’t and it did a freakin’ number on me, okay? I’m fucked up.”

They stared at each other, eyes sweeping over each other’s features. When Castiel didn’t speak, Dean’s hands dropped from his head. “I’m fucked up because of it, and Cas, you are not the problem. It’s me.”

Dean looked completely broken and Castiel wanted to get up, or reach out, but he was still paralyzed in place, his hand around his glass, his skin slipping around it, though he was unsure if it was due to condensation or nervous sweat. Instead, he just said flatly, “I see.”

Dean’s eyes turned up to the ceiling and he chewed at his lips while they both stewed in silence. Then, quietly, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were a problem. I just...wanted to do this differently than I’ve done before, because what I did before never felt real, it felt like a fucking show or an act. What I got with you doesn’t feel like a show, so...I wanted something...that was mine. Something of my own. Something I didn’t show off to people just to prove I could...I dunno.”

Dean’s fingers rubbed compulsively at his palms. “I wanted to just have you to myself, wanted this safe bubble where I didn’t have to put on a face or an act. I’ve been really enjoying getting to know you and letting you get to know me. Like, _me.”_ He pressed a hand to his chest. “Actual me. Not some jock who puts on a show around people. I just—”

There was a laugh track on TV that made them both jump. While Castiel scrambled for the remote and shut off the television in a rush, Dean blew a stream of air through his lips. 

With the TV muted, Castiel looked over and found Dean was staring at him, searching his face and looking completely broken.

“I’m scared we’ll go out together and I’ll turn into that guy,” Dean admitted tightly. “Or I’ll panic and disappear like I did with Lee. A-And mostly I’m scared of being gay in front of Sam or Charlie.”

Castiel watched Dean begin to tick off his fears on his fingers. “I’m scared of running into people I know. I’m scared I’ll have to explain myself. I’m terrified my dad will find out, I’m just—I’m just terrified all the time.” Dean’s chin scrunched up and he looked defeated as he stared at Castiel, his eyes shining. With one small shrug, Dean confessed hoarsely, “I’m just terrified. That’s all.”

Oh. That wasn’t _‘I’m ashamed of being seen with you’_ in the way Castiel thought it might be. As a matter of fact, Castiel wasn’t relieved the way he thought he might be if it had turned out Dean’s aversion to going out in public together turned out to really _not_ be about him. Rather, Castiel’s stomach twisted into knots, because he hadn’t meant to force this from Dean. He hadn’t meant to force him to bare all, or make him feel like he had to confess deep secrets. He hadn’t meant to strip away his defences. He’d always known, deep down, that Dean had troubles with his sexuality. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly with a wince, setting aside his water and turning back to Dean. “I didn’t mean to make this about me. I apologize for all of this. I never intended to put you in this position. I just… Naomi, she… I was simply insecure. But thank you for telling me. I understand now.”

Dean lowered his gaze to the floor, his lips pressed together tightly. “I want the things you want. I want to go out and be relaxed, and I want to be what we are here—” Dean gestured towards the door with a nod. “—out there. I just wanted you to myself for a bit. I didn’t want to have to answer a million questions. Sam and Charlie will ask; they’ll mean well, but they’ll ask and I’ll freak out—”

Castiel got to his feet, hearing Dean begin to ramble, seeing that nervous part of him that came out once in a while. Crossing the couch-length and reaching out, Castiel slipped his fingers around Dean’s loose fist and tugged, getting green eyes to lift and meet his gaze. Standing close, Castiel ducked slightly to catch the stare and smiled. 

“You don’t have to explain anymore, Dean. I understand, truly.”

Dean’s worried green eyes darted around Castiel’s face. So incredibly quiet, Dean said, “I just really like you.”

Castiel’s smile widened and he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Dean’s. Their noses bumped softly, and their lips stayed slotted, warm and comfortable, until Dean pulled away just a fraction.

“I really, _really_ like you,” Dean whispered against his lips, his eyes still closed. 

“I really like you, too,” Castiel replied easily, pleasantly surprised at the lack of absolute terror in his chest. He might’ve never admitted it if Dean hadn’t first, but now that he felt he had license to do so and knew the sentiment was returned, telling Dean how he felt was easy. 

It was also entirely worth it, because Dean’s grin was genuine and the rather heavy tension in the air lifted like vapour, relief felt between them palpable. Dean wasn’t hiding him because Castiel was shameful or weird or embarrassing, and it was clear that what Dean had told him had been weighing on him, too. With a relieved groan, Dean leaned forward and they hugged, their arms coming up high around their shoulders. 

With his long lashes tickling the shell of Castiel’s ear and his warm cheek against his neck, Dean said, muffled, “I’m sorry we didn’t go to Uriel’s thing.”

Castiel huffed in response, giving Dean’s ribs a squeeze. “It’s all right. There will be more.”

“‘S he gonna be pissed?”

“No,” Castiel said lightly, pulling away and stepping out of their embrace. “Although I should do the polite thing and text him.”

“‘Course,” Dean replied from behind him as Castiel turned and ducked to pick up his phone from the coffee table, only briefly startling Jack, who had been snoozing under the glass. “I’m just gonna use the washroom, be back in a sec.”

Dean’s footsteps padded quietly across the apartment. Castiel heard him chuckle when Jack flipped onto his paws and ran after him, just barely sliding through the bathroom door to presumably stare at Dean like he did with everyone else that dared use the bathroom. Weird dog.

Dropping onto the couch, Castiel relaxed back against the cushion and typed out a message to Uriel.

> Castiel | 8:37 (October 20th, 2019): Uriel, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I promise I’ll make it out to the next show. Break a leg. Can’t wait to hear all about it on Monday.

To his surprise, he only had to watch the muted television for a solid ten seconds (with, of course, every minute of Dean’s confessions replaying in his brain at super speed) before Uriel texted back. 

> Uriel | 8:38 (October 20th, 2019): Don’t sweat it, cherub. I won’t hold it against u bc you sent Naomi in your place and I’m coming up with so much new material. Shes ALL OVER your boyfriends brother. Da fuq

Scowling, his heart sinking, Castiel’s fingers flew across the touchscreen keypad. 

> Castiel | 8:38 (October 20th, 2019): what? 
> 
> Uriel | 8:38 (October 20th, 2019): SAM. I said what i said. Your boytoy’s brother (don't think i don't know youre with him, getting some good secret dick. Hope that shit is worth it, because my show is—

Uriel sent Castiel a series of about fifteen fire emojis, which only served to annoy him due to the fact that apparently _Naomi_ was _flirting_ with Sam? Castiel wanted details, not to be sent emojis like this was one huge joke—

> Uriel | 8:40 (October 20th, 2019): Naomi’s smiling more than usual (gross) and being all flirty and shit. It’s unnatural. Its SUPERnatural looool
> 
> Uriel | 8:40 (October 20th, 2019): Hannah looks like she about to kick some ass. You never told me that girls got a temper. Usually i can see her halo and wings but tonight i’m pretty sure she’s gonna throw down and get arrested if Naomi doesn’t stop looking so interested in the dank memes Sam is showing her

Naomi was doing _what?_ Castiel stared at his phone, feeling like either Uriel was confusing Hannah and Naomi, or Naomi was up to some tricks… 

Or Sam was a player, in which case, Hannah’s heart would be broken and Castiel would have to be the one to ‘throw down’. 

> Castiel | 8:40 (October 20th, 2019): I’m so confused
> 
> Uriel | 8:41 (October 20th, 2019): Don’t worry. Sams drunk as fuck and doesn’t give two shits about Naomi. I just think your bff is out for blood tonight. She told me y’all got into some argument. Hasn’t stopped blowing up my phone about it all weekend

Castiel even didn’t know where to start; Naomi hitting on Sam, Sam being drunk enough to even talk to Naomi for longer than a minute, or the fact that _Naomi was texting Uriel_?

Feeling uneasy, Castiel wrote back quickly.

> Castiel | 8:41 (October 20th, 2019): Sounds like I’m missing out on more than one comedy show.
> 
> Uriel | 8:41 (October 20th, 2019): LOL Jokes! THE MAN TELLS JOKES NOW. i better watch my back
> 
> Castiel | 8:41 (October 20th, 2019): Good luck tonight. Again, sorry I couldn’t make it.
> 
> Uriel | 8:42 (October 20th, 2019): it’s cool. I know you’re my biggest fan.
> 
> Castiel | 8:42 (October 20th, 2019): It’s true. I still think about that goat blowjob joke more often than I’d like to admit.
> 
> Castiel | 8:42 (October 20th, 2019): Also, please keep an eye on Naomi. I don’t know what she’s doing, but if she intends on hurting Hannah in any capacity, she will.
> 
> Uriel | 8:42 (October 20th, 2019): I’m on in 30 secs. Go give Dean all three inches, big boy. Make me proud
> 
> With a roll of his eyes and a smile he couldn’t help, Castiel threw his phone aside. 

When Dean came out from the washroom, Jack prancing along happily at his ankles, Castiel had forgotten about Naomi’s shenanigans. Half-way through his earlier reverie as he stared at the muted TV, he’d realised—like he’d been hit with a train—that Dean had said he really, really liked him. And he’d done it with sincerity, with feeling, with a show of trust and—

“Hey,” Dean said, his lip twitching and his hands sliding into his pockets. “How’s Uriel? Pissed?”

Castiel’s smile widened and he shook his head against the headrest. “No. I don’t think Uriel knows how to be angry. Not at me, at least. I’ve seen him lose it over some management changes in our company, and of course, the one time when they pulled his favourite taco restaurant off GrubHub, but he never seems to be upset with me. I don’t know if that makes me feel worse or better.”

“The dude is pretty all right,” Dean said with a shrug. “We’ll, uh, have to make it to his next gig.”

With his heart doing a somersault in his chest, Castiel tilted his head. “Really?”

Dean’s smile quirked up a bit. “Sure. I gotta get over my shit eventually. I dunno—” Dean rubbed at his hair, his rings twinkling as the scene changed on TV. “Just talking with you just now… It was a step. I mean—” Dean’s hand dropped and he laughed. “—you mean a lot to me, _been_ meaning a lot. I know we’ve only known each other for a month, but…”

“I won’t fellate you in the middle of the bar when we go out,” Castiel offered, shrugging playfully, feeling freer in the face of Dean’s honesty and openness. “I’ll restrain myself in the name of baby steps.”

Seemingly amused, Dean padded across the floor, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. Careful not to step on Jack, who had quickly dropped back to sleep on the floor by Castiel’s feet, Dean slid a leg onto the couch by Castiel’s thigh. His hand was warm and dry when he reached down and dragged his fingers through Castiel’s hair.

“You’re real patient with me,” Dean murmured, taking his time surveying Castiel’s face, his gaze lingering on each feature like he was crafting a mental picture. “If I were in your shoes, I don’t know if I would’ve been understanding of my bullshit, you know? I’m—” Dean laughed, shaking his head, “—a high maintenance boyfriend, I guess.”

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat, and Dean’s hand stilled in his hair as his eyes went wide.

Boyfriend?

They both seemed to realise what Dean had said at the same time. Dean’s stare dipped away and he cleared his throat, sliding his hand back out of Castiel’s hair. Castiel could feel his panic, the gay panic Castiel was just starting to realise had been there for most of their relationship, sitting at the core of Dean’s insecurities. They’d been written plain as day on his face and Castiel had misconstrued those moments as regret, but—

“You are not a high maintenance boyfriend,” Castiel said quietly, reaching up to catch Dean’s hand before it could slide into his pocket. He held the hand at the wrist for a moment before sliding their fingers together and yanking Dean down onto his lap properly, thrilled when he came easily, his thighs on either side of Castiel’s. “You,” Castiel continued in a low rumble, his face tipped up and his lips inches from Dean’s, “are quite wonderful.”

Above him, Dean’s face twisted into a smile of his own. “Thanks, Cas. You’re a real pal.”

They both dissolved into husky giggles when Castiel pinched his ass and growled, “I am _not_ your pal.”

Dean smirked, wriggling away from Castiel’s pinchy fingers. “Prove it. Why don’t you just—”

His words melted away into Castiel’s lips as they kissed, their mouths warm and open to each other, their noses bumping. Castiel’s hands pressed against Dean’s back and he was thrilled when Dean slid closer, heavy in his lap, his hands grasping at Castiel’s shirt, pushing his maroon hoodie down his shoulders while he rolled his hips. Their jeans shuffled as denim rubbed over denim, and Castiel’s nose filled with the smell of worn cologne as Dean paused only to reach between them and haul his t-shirt over his head.

Castiel audibly groaned his appreciation at the vision of Dean’s freckled chest and he ran his hands down his skin reverently. His fingertips brushed nipples and ran down the warm, soft skin of Dean’s stomach before they both jumped—Jack had chosen that moment to pounce on Dean’s discarded shirt and growl, shaking it around and throwing it into the air.

“Jack!” Castiel barked, leaning around Dean. “Drop it!”

In his lap, Dean laughed and raised a hand to his mouth, seeming not to care that his t-shirt was now a chew toy. “My bad.”

Jack ignored Castiel and continued to growl around the t-shirt.

With a clap to Dean’s thigh, Castiel urged him off his lap gently. “I better get that before he shreds it into strips. I’ve lost too many t-shirts and pairs of underwear to this rabid puppy. _Jack, stop!_ ”

Dean stood aside as Castiel lifted himself off the couch and ducked down to swipe the shirt from the puppy’s mouth, though he failed. Jack was fast and clearly thought they were playing a game, because he snatched the shirt off the carpet and ran into the bedroom with it.

“God damn it,” Castiel muttered under his breath.

Dean grabbed his hand and swept past him, following Jack and grinning over his bare shoulder at Castiel. “It’s fine, we were heading there anyway.”

“We were?” Castiel blinked, letting Dean lead him into the bedroom.

“What?” Dean laughed. “You thought I just whipped my shirt off for some smooching? I’m slutty, but I’m obvious about it. Come on, let’s take off the rest of our clothes.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he was tugged into the bedroom. “So Jack can eat them all?”

“Hey, at least he’ll be distracted.” Dean let go of Castiel’s hand and turned, dropping down onto the edge of the mattress with a small bounce.

Castiel eyed Jack, who was growling around Dean’s shirt and shaking it around like it had morally offended him. “With all our clothes, he’ll be distracted forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” Dean countered, though his eyes twinkled. “But for an hour might be good.”

Castiel swallowed as Dean’s fingers began to undo the buttons of his jeans. Feeling the same thrill and nerves he always did when he and Dean were about to have sex, Castiel mirrored the gesture, sliding down his zipper slowly.

“An hour is a long time,” Castiel murmured. “No pressure.”

“Well,” Dean said, inhaling slowly and shrugging his shoulders, a strange nervousness to his tone, “I’ll need some warming up, I figure.”

With a smirk, Castiel lowered himself to the floor one knee at a time, holding Dean’s gaze. He watched Dean’s tongue swipe out to lick at his bottom lip, enjoying the swallowed humming noise Dean made when Castiel ran his hands up his thighs and hooked his fingers through his belt loops, inching his jeans down his hips.

“I can think of a rather direct way to warm you up. It’s...right on the tip of my tongue,” Castiel teased, secretly pleased with himself for being so clever. He ran his hand over Dean’s hard cock through his black boxer-briefs as Dean toed the pants off his ankles and kicked them aside. With easy access, Castiel tugged down the underwear and gently took Dean’s cock in his hands before he swirled his tongue around the thick head, lapping up sweet pre-come.

Dean’s breath hitched and his eyes slid shut, the lines around his eyes softening. “T-That’s not what I meant, but f-fuck, your mouth feels amazing.”

“Mmmm,” Castiel responded, his lips stretching around Dean’s shaft as he bobbed his head down once before he popped off and asked hoarsely, “What?”

He stared up at Dean, while his hands stroked slowly, turning in opposite directions around Dean’s cock, now slippery with spit. 

“I meant— _mmfph—_ you could warm me u-up so I could, um—” He paused to hiss, lifting his hips to push his dick through the smooth, slick tunnel of Castiel’s fists. “Y’know...what we talked about a few days ago?”

Castiel’s hands stilled and Dean’s hips eased back down onto the mattress. When Dean’s eyes opened, they stared at each other.

“You…” Castiel paused, licking his lips. God, they were so dry, why were they so dry. “...want me to…”

“Fuck me,” Dean murmured, nodding once, his throat bobbing as he went a bit wide-eyed. “Is that okay?”

“Okay? Of course, it’s okay. I just—Weren’t we just talking about baby steps?” Castiel asked, hesitant. 

“Yeah, well…” Dean trailed off, dropping his gaze to somewhere on Castiel’s chest, eyeing his t-shirt (which was still on—Castiel made a mental note to take it off ASAP). “Dunno. We don’t _have_ to. I just —Look, I dunno, I’ve just been thinking a lot, and you’re paying the price for me acting like a chicken shit about a lot of stuff I should be okay with—”

Castiel’s hands dropped to his knees, which was fine because Dean was going soft in his hands anyway. “Dean, we do _not_ have to do anything you’re not okay wi—”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a mutinous little shake. “No! No, that’s not it. Fuck, I’m not saying anything right. I’m _ready_ , I just needed to be ready with someone who was respectful and—and _cares_ about me. Someone I trust, who ain’t gonna judge me or make me feel freaked out. A-And—” Dean opened his eyes, his crows feet deep in a wince. He gestured at Castiel weakly before seeming to make some kind of decision, eventually reaching out and running his finger through the dip in Castiel’s chin. “You’re that person, Sunshine. Honest.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say, because a weird lump in his throat was blocking all the nice, smart, thoughtful things he could say, so instead he just grunted, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Another nod. “So...you want to?”

Did he want to? _Did he want to?_ Castiel wanted to smack Dean; of course, he fucking wanted to. Dean was only the most gorgeous man of all time, and not only that, but he was filling up all the spaces in Castiel’s body like he wanted to make a permanent home there. To be trusted, to know he’d made someone feel more like themselves, made someone—most importantly, someone like _Dean_ —feel safe?

“Of course,” Castiel murmured, raising himself up off his ankles, leaning forward on his knees and planting a quick, but soft, kiss on Dean’s lips. Against the soft pout, Castiel said, “I would do anything for you, or with you.”

Castiel’s eyes slid shut as Dean smiled against his lips and planted a tender peck there. “Good,” he murmured, the sound rumbling between them. “Then take off your clothes, ‘cause I’m feeling underdressed.”

At last, Castiel tugged off his shirt and threw it aside. Dean’s hands were warm as he wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist and hooked his fingers through his belt loops, sighing into their kiss as he pulled Castiel onto the bed. With his hands on either side of Dean’s shoulders, Castiel laid on top of him, careful not to crush him, but grinding their hips together with a firm drag. He felt Dean’s eyes flutter closed against his cheekbone and moaned when Dean’s hand on the small of his back pulled him down completely.

With Dean’s legs spread on either side of him, his cock hard again and pressing firmly against his own, Castiel kissed down Dean’s jaw and neck, licking a stripe over his Adam’s apple, pleased when he could feel Dean’s moan against his lips.

He worshiped Dean’s throat and collarbone, shuddering under the gentle curls and whorls Dean drew into the skin on the back of his arms and down his shoulder blades with the soft pads of his fingers. Quickly, they were both breathing hard, the air warm between them from their panting and elevated body temperature. Dean’s hand was down Castiel’s boxer-briefs, his palm smooth against the silky skin of Castiel’s full cock, his fingertips rolling his balls, and they were staring at each other, momentarily suspended in their lust and attraction.

Castiel lifted himself up onto his elbows and they took a moment to stare and catch their breath. His hand ran down the side of Dean’s face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Nervous,” Dean admitted in a murmur, his lips barely moving. Still, after a pause, he exhaled slowly and smiled—that tight smile Castiel was beginning to recognize as Dean trying to push through jitters. “Just a little nervous.”

“I can tell,” Castiel uttered softly, dragging the back of his fingers down the side of Dean’s face in a hopefully consoling pat. With a smile of his own and a sweep of his thumb over Dean’s well-kissed bottom lip, he said, “It won’t help to be tense. Let me help you relax.”

Wordlessly, Dean nodded, his eyes glancing with restless curiosity as Castiel got to his feet and padded into the bathroom. As he dug around in the cabinet under his sink, he hoped Dean wouldn’t ask why Castiel had a jar of coconut oil in his bathroom—he’d gone through a coconut-oil-on-and-in-everything phase and didn’t want to talk about it. 

When he returned, Dean was propped up on his elbows, watching him curiously, but when he saw the jar in Castiel’s hands, his eyebrows went up. “Oh. I see how it is,” he teased, shimmying his hips on the bed, his cock bobbing. “Tryna butter me up by _oiling_ me up?”

Castiel tapped at his knee and smirked. “Get naked and make yourself comfortable.”

Dean jutted his chin at Castiel’s jeans, challenging, “I’ll get naked if you do.”

With a nervous little thrill—as if they hadn’t been naked together several times before—Castiel put the jar down on the bed and took a step back, proud of his hands for not shaking as he put them on his hips, hooking his thumbs under his loosened waistband and dragging his pants off slowly. The sparkle of lust in Dean’s eyes helped egg on the burst of confidence he was feeling about how much Dean trusted (and desired) him.

His jeans and underwear puddled on the floor and he stepped out of the material, sliding a knee onto the bed and picking up the jar. “Roll over. Onto your stomach.”

He was unsure how he managed to sound so assured of his own abilities, but pleased when Dean did as he was told, shuffling up on the bed and laying face down, his hands sliding over the cotton duvet and under his head, his cheek pressed into the mattress. The back of his muscled thighs became a home for Castiel as he sat on them, hoping he wasn’t too heavy. 

The room filled with the scent of soft coconut as the lid turned easily in Castiel’s hand and opened with a pop. After he warmed the creamy white oil between his palms, Castiel timidly slid his slick hands up the band of muscles flanking either side of Dean’s spine, leaning into the touch to apply some pressure. 

“Too hard?”

“No,” Dean said with a sigh, the muscles of his back visibly relaxing and the tightness melting with the spread of oil over his shoulder blades. Dean’s eyes slid closed and he breathed, voice muffled by the duvet, “Feels good, Cas.”

It was by sheer luck and pure determination to have Dean feel relaxed that Castiel was even good at this at all. It helped that he had big hands that were normally pretty warm, but otherwise he was winging it. Regardless, Dean was loosening up under the pressure of his hands, visibly relaxing as the minutes ticked by. It didn’t hurt either that Castiel was getting harder and harder just from watching his own hands slide over Dean’s oiled up back, his mouth salivating at the very picture of those shining, smooth muscles. His freckles seemed to contrast and become more prominent in the warm lighting from the bedside lamps. 

He knew he had started this to ease Dean into being penetrated, but the lines around Dean’s eyes were smoothing out, and he looked so at ease that Castiel took time to knead his thumbs into any knots he found—and he found quite a few in Dean’s neck and his shoulders, physical manifestations of stress and pain. He knew Dean carried some heavy emotions around with him everywhere, and since he didn’t wear them on his face, always so good at pretending he was okay and easy-going, he had to have been storing them somewhere. 

He worked his hands down the back of Dean’s arms, enjoying the slick sounds of the oil against skin and inhaling the soft aroma of coconut mixed with Dean’s natural worn-cologne smell. The only other noise was the occasional soft exhalation from Dean against the covers and Jack’s soft snoring (he’d tired himself out having a violent, angry altercation with Dean’s jeans). 

Finally bringing himself back to the original intention of the massage, Castiel shifted down Dean’s legs, sitting on his calves and dragging his oily palms over Dean’s lower back, pausing only to knead his thumbs into the two symmetrical dimples above his ass, before he was massaging the tight glutes, licking his own lips at the image of those shining globes looking incredibly spreadable. He was so close.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, his voice admittedly a bit husky.

With a slow breath from puffed out cheeks, Dean rasped, “Fuck yeah.”

His lip quirked in the corner, pleased that he was able to bring Dean this level of comfort and relaxation. “Good.”

Not wanting to rush, not wanting to make Dean tense up again, he scooped a bit more oil from the jar and melted down the soft coconut oil into liquid between his palms to apply to the back of his legs, running his hands up the muscles with firmer pressure. It was only when he slid his hands back up those thighs and his thumbs ran across the dip of Dean’s ass, the two crevices where those curves met the top of his legs, did Dean shudder.

The energy shifted and with a hitch of his own breath, Castiel spread Dean’s asscheeks, dipping a finger up and in between, stopping at the ring of muscle that made his mouth water. _Go slow, keep him calm,_ he told himself when Dean exhaled audibly, shakily, and he was momentarily swept up in the fantasy of his cock sliding into that asshole, deep, in and out, slow, then fast, and Dean would push back and fuck himself on—

“Still good?” Castiel croaked, blinking himself back to reality. 

“Still good,” Dean confirmed, though he pulled his hands in closer to his face. 

_Slow,_ Castiel decided. _Definitely go slow._

And he did. With care and caution, he swirled his thumb over Dean’s entrance, varying in pressure but taking his time until he saw Dean’s tense shoulders relax again as he squirmed under him a bit, moaning. It was then that he pushed his finger in, careful and gentle. 

It took several minutes of slipping the one finger in and out, deeper and deeper until he tried two. Dean was tight, but he watched his face for signs of pain. Thankfully, other than an initial wince and a quiet reassurance that he was okay, Dean seemed to be getting into it. He even lifted his hips a bit and pushed back—a move that had Castiel working one handed as he wrapped his own aching, touch-hungry cock in his fist and pumped on the end loftily.

“Fuck,” Dean rasped when a third finger joined the first two and his ass stretched deliciously around Castiel’s slick knuckles. Castiel watched a shudder ripple beautifully down Dean’s shining back, and saw his fingers curl into the duvet when his own fingers curled downwards, brushing against that spot he knew could elicit the most delectable of sensations. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Still nervous?” Castiel rasped, his hand clamping around his own cock as he gave it a squeeze, goosebumps littering his skin; Dean looked so hot all oiled up and shuddering as he rocked back a bit, his hips lifted as he was no doubt hard again too. 

“Just a little,” Dean admitted, lifting himself up onto his elbows and looking over his shoulder, his eyes hooded. “But fuck me anyway.”

If the words weren’t enough, Dean’s determined face and his trusting gaze certainly were. Castiel nodded once and helped himself to about three times more oil than he needed, slicking it over his cock and over Dean’s asshole until they were both dripping, bedcovers be damned. They’d agreed weeks ago that they wouldn’t use condoms anymore, so that wasn’t a worry, but still, Castiel paused.

“We can do this however you want,” Castiel said clearly, his eyes locked with Dean’s. “You don’t have to be on your stomach, or all fours. We can—”

“No, I’m good, really,” Dean assured, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, giving his head a shake. “Just...slow, alright?”

He knew he should trust Dean, he should accept that he was telling the truth, but still, for both Dean’s reassurance and his own, Castiel leaned over and captured Dean’s lips, kissing him thoroughly, pouring _I’ve got you_ into every sweep of tongue and soft exhale. And when they broke apart, the angle not lending itself well to continued making out, Castiel leaned his forehead on Dean’s shoulder blade, uncaring about oil or slip, and lined himself up, sliding the head of his cock in slowly.

The second he was in, the moment Dean’s ass tightened around the tip of his dick, Castiel froze. Under his forehead, Dean’s back tensed up and he heard him hiss. 

Quickly lifting his head, he whispered, “Hey, hey—”

Dean’s shoulders were tight and clenched, his arms taut, the muscles clearly outlined by the shine of oil and light from the lamps. His head had dropped to his chest, his face hidden. 

“Dean—”

“Don’t—” Dean was breathing loud, one hand raised sharply from the mattress to hold up. “Don’t talk to me f-for a second.”

So he didn’t. Castiel was quiet, only moving to run his hand up Dean’s side, stroking his flank comfortingly, the pressure light. He let the silence linger, although normally silences made him uncomfortable. Thankfully, Dean raised his head soon after and looked over his shoulder, smiling tightly.

“I’m okay.”

“‘Kay,” Castiel murmured into his skin, planting small kisses across the top of his shoulders as he continued to stroke his side. With his other hand on his hip, he moved slowly, eyes up to watch Dean’s face.

He knew the first time could be uncomfortable, he’d been there before, on all fours, unsure what felt normal and what didn’t. He knew he’d done all he could—spent time preparing, loosening him up, getting him used to the feeling. He’d used enough lube to slide them across the city, and now he was only moving when told. 

It was slow going, but eventually, the front of his thighs met the back of Dean’s and all he could do was pull out, slow, careful, although the tight ass around his cock made him want to lose his mind, to thrust back in with abandon and fuck Dean until he fell apart. Thankfully, while he wasn’t entirely relaxed under Castiel’s palm, Dean eventually pushed back himself, rocking on Castiel’s dick. 

His core shook from holding himself up, from curling forward, so Castiel placed one last kiss on the back of Dean’s neck and straightened up, leaning on his knees and holding Dean’s hips in his hands. From that angle, he could finally see his cock sandwiched between Dean’s oiled up asscheeks, and he watched his shining cock slide out and then back in, that slick asshole stretched around him, warm and tight, but not impossibly so, not anymore. 

He hummed deeply, the sound vibrating in his chest, when Dean finally tilted his head back and groaned in obvious pleasure, his breath coming out in puffs and pants. Castiel’s thrusts were met with the curl of Dean’s spine as he rocked back on his hands and knees. They fucked, although carefully, and eventually Dean’s hand lifted from the mattress to disappear between his own legs, his biceps flexing as he jerked himself off. 

Soon, the room filled with Dean’s grunts and moans, and Castiel’s breath picked up to audible rasps while their flesh clapped and their melded bodies made slick noises as they fucked. The sight of Dean’s back muscles contracting and loosening, the dip of his spine shadowed where beads of sweat gathered, pushed Castiel closer to the edge than he could control. He’d have liked to fuck Dean face-to-face, but they would get there another time. He didn’t have the self-control to slow down to switch positions, because he was there, right there—

But Dean came first, tremors running down his body as he cried out, a choked, surprised noise that filled the room, and then he froze, panting hard and letting his head drop down to his chest. “Fuck. F-Fuck, I…”

Knowing Dean would be too sensitive to continue to be fucked, Castiel pulled out and gave his cock a few quick strokes because he’d been that close. He bit down on his bottom lip and groaned, his eyes sliding closed as hot come dribbled down his knuckles and no doubt dripped onto the bed. The tightness and heat that’d been building at the base of his cock for the last hour exploded and rushed up the shaft, sending waves of pleasure through his limbs and fading out like smoke.

Even though he felt like flopping down and going to sleep, Castiel opened his eyes and exhaled long and slow, watching Dean, who hadn’t moved. He was still on his hands and knees, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his shoulders, his breaths quick and stuttered.

For a second, everything seemed fine, like two people just enjoying the come down from a good fuck, but Dean still hadn’t moved or said anything after nearly half a minute, so Castiel shifted to the side, uncaring about the slippery, now sticky, mess that was his hand. “Dean?” he asked, his tone lifted in question. 

Alarm bells went off when Dean’ didn’t reply, instead lifting his hand off the mattress to press the back of it to his obscured face. 

“Hey, Dean,” Castiel urged, crawling up to Dean’s face, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. He leaned down and ducked his face to see Dean’s, and was seized in panic when Dean’s eyes were glazed over and redness was spread around his nose and eyes, the dark sandy lashes blinking hard.

“I did it,” Dean croaked, his throat bobbing. “I did it and nothing bad happened.”

Castiel had always been entirely wrapped up in his own anxiety his entire life. He’d never felt like he could make his own choices, or take any kind of initiative without checking in with superiors, whether it was his mother or bosses or guardians, and he’d certainly never had anyone who needed him, so he hadn’t ever had occasion to step up and lead. 

Immediately, none of that mattered because _Dean_ needed him, and he wasn’t sure where he summoned the courage and steady calm needed to be the one someone depended on, but without a moment of hesitation, he had his hand on Dean’s back between his shoulder blades and he was rubbing at his arms.

“You’re okay,” he whispered firmly, giving Dean’s forearm a squeeze, watching a tear drip down onto the mattress from where it had been clinging to Dean’s lashes. “You’re safe, and nothing bad happened.”

“I’m still me,” Dean breathed, his voice shaky, but oddly rattling as he let out a little laugh. With a little bit of guidance, Dean sat down on his hip, turning towards Castiel and smiling, although tremblingly. His eyes were impossibly green and wide. “I’m still me.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, placing his clean hand on Dean’s jawline, stroking his chin with his thumb. “Nothing has changed.”

“So stupid,” Dean whispered, seeming to have shaken himself out of his funk a bit, raising a hand to his neck and pressing his palm there like he was checking that he still had a pulse. “It’s so s-stupid. I always thought that if I… If I did… I wouldn’t be—I’d turn into someone else, but I…”

Dean broke into a laugh that could only be described as one of relief and Castiel joined him, their heads ducking together, and as naturally as rain from the sky or waves in the ocean, they hugged, their arms coming up around each other’s shoulders. 

“What do you need?” Castiel asked after they caught their breath, minutes later when they were still hugging and Dean’s tight grip loosened, his cheek resting on Castiel’s shoulder.

“This,” Dean murmured into his skin, sighing and shifting closer. “And maybe water. And a shower.”

“We’re so sticky,” Castiel whispered against the shell of his ear like it was a secret meant just for them. 

He pulled away and found Dean smiling at him, his face still a bit red, but to Castiel’s delight, it seemed to be more of a post-sex flush than a sign of a mental breakdown teetering on the edge. Making a home for that warm feeling, Castiel reached up and dragged his finger through the cleft of Dean’s chin as Dean so often did to him. 

“Go shower,” Castiel said, fuelled by the same confidence he’d felt before, the same profound certainty that he could take care of Dean and offer him the comfort he needed and deserved. “I’ll change the sheets, get you water, and make you something to eat. I know it’s late, and I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” Dean admitted, his teeth poking out in a crooked smile. 

“When you come back out, get under the covers, and we’ll eat something and watch TV after I wash up,” Castiel went on, jerking his head at the TV mounted to the wall. “There’s some movie called Hatchet Man on channel four that keeps replaying at 10:30. Want to watch it?”

Of course Dean wanted to watch it—when they weren’t watching Friends, Dean was always trying to convince him to delve into horror movies. 

“Hell yeah,” Dean agreed as he slid off of the bed, careful to avoid questionable puddles. “I love that movie, you’re gonna dig it, I promise.”

Castiel stood as well, waving a hand at the bathroom as he turned to head into the kitchen. “Clean towels are under the sink.”

Dean nodded, and Castiel turned away entirely. But before he could make it two steps, Dean’s hand was around his wrist, tugging him back. When he faced him, brows raised in surprise, Dean was staring at him, eyes searching his face, his mouth parted.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly, licking his lips. “Thank you.”

Not sure what to say, Castiel simply nodded, a small smile on his face, suddenly feeling shy. 

Dean swallowed audibly and he seemed to struggle before he breathed, “I…”

Strangely, Dean trailed off, giving his head a small shake before he smiled too, small and shy, and leaned forward, settling for a kiss to replace whatever words he’d chosen not to say.


	9. Reprogramming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Kradarua for betaing! <3

At some point the next morning—potentially in the dim light of dusk, Castiel couldn’t be sure—he’d felt Dean shift on the bed and heard the ringing of Led Zeppelin playing from somewhere in the condo. It had still been quite dark in the room, so he hadn’t even lifted his head off the warm pillow or shifted under the fresh fluffy blankets he’d put onto the bed as Dean showered the night prior. Knowing Dean was nearby, moving around the room, probably off to the toilet or to make coffee as he did sometimes when he woke up first, Castiel drifted back to sleep, Jack sleeping on his feet.

When Castiel was conscious next, he felt like he’d been asleep for only minutes, but the rays of soft morning light shining brightly through the curtains told him differently

“Dean,” he grunted raspily, his voice thick with sleep, his hand patting across the bed in a clumsy manner. When he felt nothing but cold sheets, he lifted his head and squinted blearily around the room. “Dean?”

Nothing. No movement or sounds other than Jack whining in question as he, too, woke up from slumber, his puppy ears lifting and his big round eyes blinking slowly.

Still a bit dazed from a heavy sleep, Castiel turned onto his back with a groan and sat up in bed, the covers sliding down his chest and puddling around his waist. Jack got to his feet, walking sluggishly over the duvet and curling up in Castiel’s lap, uninvited of course but welcome as always. As he scratched his puppy’s ears, Castiel listened for signs of life out in the kitchen or living room, and quickly realised that Dean wasn’t anywhere in the condo when he was met with silence.

Unsettled by that, Castiel tugged Jack into his arms, amused as the small pup remained in a ball, already having fallen back asleep with his snout smooshed against the print of Shirley Manson’s face on Castiel’s chest. 

With his puppy in tow, wearing nothing but boxers and the t-shirt Dean had gifted him at the festival, Castiel got out of bed and padded into the living room, squinting around, hoping he was wrong about the emptiness of his place.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Dean had truly left without so much as a goodbye. The thought was unnerving but Castiel urged himself not to look too much into it, although a heavy knot settled in his stomach, occupying the space where he usually felt hunger; now, his appetite for breakfast faded away. Regardless, he knew he should get something in his belly, so he deposited the dog onto the floor with murmured promises to take him out for a poop after he could brew some coffee.

To his surprise, right on the coffee maker—written on a sticky note watermarked with Castiel’s company logo, clearly stolen from right off his desk—was a message from Dean written in messy, blocky letters: _“At the hospital, call you later. D.”_

Right, Castiel remembered. Sam was set to leave for California again in the next day or so. Perhaps Dean had mentioned they were going to visit their father and Castiel had just completely forgotten, probably too busy thinking too hard or doubting something or other 

Settled by the note, the tension in his shoulders drained away and the heavy stones in his stomach disappeared, leaving him hungry again. With renewed energy and a better mood, Castiel made breakfast, all the while smiling at his scrambled eggs and recalling the significant night he’d spent with Dean. There’d been a number of heavy, stressful moments during their time together yesterday, but there was absolutely no doubt that they were stronger and better for it, and that their bond was solidified. 

They’d shared a special experience, a first for Dean, certainly, and a first for Castiel in other ways. He could see Dean beginning to learn that the hyper-masculinity and homophobia and self-hatred he’d internalized for so long was really all bullshit; he could still be gay and be Dean at the same time. And Castiel had certainly begun to learn that he could make choices other than the predictable ones he’d been making for years. He could be a rock for someone, he could provide comfort, and he could be protective, not just protected. It wasn’t that he wanted to sweep in and be a hero all the time, but it was freeing to know he could be someone other than the submissive, frightened, weird loner he’d painted himself to be in his head—that his mother and all the guardians that hadn’t wanted him had painted in his head. 

Dean thought he was worth his time, worth his trust, worth his… Maybe it was too early to talk about love. But, damn it, did Castiel ever want to. If he was being truthful with himself, he kind of thought Dean had been about to say those three words to him last night, but he couldn’t be sure.

Three mouthfuls into his plate of aromatic, warm scrambled eggs, there were three sharp knocks on his front door. Somehow convinced it was Dean coming back from a visit with his dad, Castiel set down the forkful of wobbly eggs and walked faster than he’d care to admit to the door, tugging it open with the beginnings of a warm smile on his face.

It dropped abruptly when the door swung open and Naomi stood in the hallway, looking odd, her lips tilted up in a tight smile and her eyes sharp and alert as ever. Before he could slam the door in her face, she swept past him, already speaking.

“Is Dean here?” she asked primly, stopping in the living room and looking around, her sandy ponytail swishing at her shoulders.

Castiel stood at the open door, glaring at her. “No, he’s not, and you can’t just barge in here!”

“Oh, Castiel,” she snapped, rolling her eyes and ducking her chin as she rummaged around the big brown Louis Vuitton purse tucked under her arm. “I have a key, don’t be ridiculous.”

With a scowl, he rolled his eyes as well and shut the door. “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a few steps towards her before standing with his arms crossed. “I told you I didn’t want to speak to you.”

“Look, I understand you’re upset with me. I know you think I’m—” She made air quotes. ”—’a real bitch’.”

She turned on her heel to face him as she stopped in his living room, ignoring Jack as he bounced around her knees, snapping at the hem of her skirt. “But I think you’re making a huge fool of yourself, and I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it. I’m your best friend, so I’ll take the cold shoulder if I have to, but I won’t watch you be led on any longer.”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel demanded in frustration, so incredibly annoyed that Naomi couldn’t respect the simplest of boundaries, especially when she was only crossing them to prove some stupid, unfounded hunch she had.

“ _Dean_ , Castiel. I’m talking about Dean.” Naomi yanked her phone from her purse and waved her hand wildly. “I’m talking about love-them-and-leave them _fuck boy—”_

Oh, dear God. She was spending _way_ too much time with Uriel.

She began tapping at her phone, the clack-clack-clack of her short acrylics driving him nuts for every second that she stood in his apartment, telling him how Dean wasn’t worth his time when Dean was worth every damn second—

“I’m talking about _proof_ that he is using you, Castiel.” Her voice was rising, her light eyes wide as she shook her phone at him. “Proof that he doesn’t love you like you love him, that he doesn’t even _like_ you!”

Heat rose quickly to Castiel’s face and he knew he was probably turning red. His hands balled into fists. Practically feeling every muscle in his shoulders constrict and tighten, he ordered in a growl, “Get out. I’ve been patient with you, but you’re crossing lines—”

“September 19th. Dean: ‘ _Dude was kind of a loser, to be honest.',”_ Naomi read out loud from her phone, her tone clipped and redness tinting the top of her cheeks. “And then Sam: _‘Why are you always hooking up with losers? Why do you_ always _do this?’”_

Her eyes flickered up to meet Castiel’s gaze as if to punctuate her words, waiting for him to have some kind of reaction. But Castiel had no idea what she was talking about. All he could do was stare blankly, blinking at her and gaping, entirely perplexed. 

When he didn’t reply, Naomi licked her lips and shook her bangs from her eyes, continuing on with her narration, reading from the phone. “Four minutes later, Dean says, ‘ _Weirdly hot for an awkward loner. Gotta say I, definitely got weird religious homeschooled vibes from the dude_ —”

Jogged out of his dumbfounded silence, Castiel all but stomped his foot as he demanded, “What are you reading? Naomi, this is _enough!”_

With a growl, Naomi swept towards him and jutted the phone out at him, pushing it into his hands. With her eyes flashing, she sneered, “I’m reading text messages between Sam and Dean the morning after your—God, what did you call it—’amazing night’? The night you brought a handsome stranger home from Heaven and made ‘a connection’? Remember that blessed, prophesied night, where—” She spread out her hands in hyperbole, mockingly looking up at the ceiling. ”—God split the skies and bonded you both profoundly, mouth-to-cock—”

“What the _fuck_ , Naomi?” Castiel exclaimed, his voice raising uncharacteristically. Anger surged through his body like a burst of energy when he realised he wasn’t holding Naomi’s phone—it was Sam’s—and he snarled, “Why do you have Sam’s phone? How did you get this?”

“Does it really matter?” she demanded, propping her fists on her hips and narrowing her flashing eyes at him. “He left it at the bar and I snooped, okay? I wanted to know—”

“You _stole_ it!” Castiel cried out, pointing at her with the iPhone. His eyes widened, horror settling in his chest. “Uriel said you were all over Sam and that he’d been drinking and—Jesus _Christ,_ Naomi, what is wrong with you?”

“Fine, I borrowed it,” she admitted, flicking bangs from her eyes with a sweep of her hand before she crossed her arms over her chest. “It made no sense: you were claiming that you and Dean were engaged in this remarkable budding romance and yet he said _nothing_ to his own brother, who is—” She rolled her eyes. “— _allegedly_ his best friend, his confidant, what have you. I just wanted to see, okay? I wanted to know if he felt for you what you felt for him. So I snooped.”

“So you’ve said,” Castiel hissed, sweeping past her and dropping down onto the couch.

He shouldn’t have entertained this, he shouldn’t have. He knew it was wrong. It was not only a crime on Naomi’s part, but a huge violation of privacy. But he sat on the couch and clutched the phone in his hands anyway, staring at his reflection in the black screen.

It would be wrong to look.

Naomi was _wrong_. She’d always been wrong. Dean liked him. _“I really, really like you,”_ he’d said. He’d said it with such feeling, with such sincerity on his face...

Castiel leaned his forehead on his hand as he stared at the phone, his elbow digging into the top of his knee. “I can’t believe you stole his phone. And I can’t believe you thought I’d actually go through his messages. Jesus—” He thrust it back at her, looking away, unable to stand the sight of her. “Just take it. Give it back to Sam. I don’t care what’s in those chats. I don’t. What Dean and I have is—”

“Complete bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Dean is using you for the boyfriend experience, and that’s _it_ , Castiel,” Naomi pleaded, stepping over his feet, careful not to trudge on Jack’s tail. Castiel felt her drop down beside him on the couch, her side pressed to his. Gently, she pried the phone from his fingers—why was he holding on so tightly—and she unlocked the device with a sweep of her finger.

Castiel stared at the rug. 

_Clack-clack-clack._ She was going in.

Naomi was quiet for a second, and warm against his side as she leaned on him. In a murmur, she read softly: “ _I definitely got weird religious homeschooled vibes from the dude. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was chained in a basement for half his life._ ”

Nausea rolled up the sides of his stomach and radiated up his throat at the words. Immediately, he felt like he’d been punched. He wanted to tell her to stop reading, but he truly felt like he might be sick if he opened his mouth. 

A part of him, a small, dark voice in his head was whispering, _“I told you so.”_

“ _‘Look, I lived, okay? Didn’t wake up in an ice tub with a kidney gone.’”_ Naomi went on. “' _Though, the dude was weird enough that I’d consider that a close call.’_ ”

Castiel shot up to his feet and walked away, unsure where he was going until he ended up turning back around at the mouth of the small hallway leading to his room. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he wanted to put space between himself and Naomi and Sam’s phone and Dean’s horrible, mean-spirited mockery.

To add insult to heartache, Castiel felt his eyes water and his sinuses tighten as tears betrayed him and gathered in his vision. “Dean hadn’t told anyone about us because he wanted to keep me to himself, just for a bit.”

“Oh, God,” Naomi groaned, pressing her hand to her eyes. “Is that what he told you? Jesus Christ, Castiel, what a load of horse shit. He’s _using_ you, can’t you see that? If he’d finally found ‘the one’—” Her tone was biting, was mocking. “—why would he hide that from his family and friends, from Charlie and his brother who he knows are supportive? You’re not a boyfriend, you’re an experiment.”

“Stop,” Castiel croaked.

She did not. “Is it more likely that he’s so head over heels in love with you that he wants to hide you from everyone, make no acknowledgement that he even _knows_ you, _or_ is it more likely that you’re just someone lonely enough to take care of him, to eat up every loving word he can conjure? Isn’t it more likely that he knows you’ll give him anything he wants because you’ll give it? He’s called you a loser, a loner, and he’s called you weird—a creepy hookup who’d been chained in a fucking basement—and you’re still standing there defending him?” 

The longer he stared at her as she spoke, the blurrier she got. 

She was gesturing wildly with her hands, her tone shrill again. “Jesus, Castiel, just _look_ at the phone. He has not mentioned you _once_ to his brother. Not one time, not even in passing. You are nothing to him, not even worth a—”

With a sniff, Castiel dragged his wrist under his nose, blinking away tears. He refused to shed them. His tone strained, he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you,” Naomi insisted, her face twisted in a pained grimace as she rose to her feet. “It hurts me to see you taken advantage of. You should be with someone who appreciates you for who you are, who cares about you and loves you, like—”

“Like _you?_ ” Castiel blurted out, his voice a rasp, furious growl.

There. He’d said it. He’d said the thing that he’d always known, always suspected. 

From the moment Castiel rejected her that night almost ten years ago, Naomi had single-handedly ruined every relationship he had ever almost had, extinguished every spark before it had time to flame, claiming every time that she was ‘looking out for him’. It was always because whoever he liked wasn’t good enough, or kind enough, or funny enough. She’d convinced him that no one saw him for who he was, or gaslighted him into believing _he_ was doing things wrong, pushing people away. He was too awkward, too shy, too weird, too blunt, or not blunt enough. He dressed wrong, had the wrong hobbies. He said the wrong thing, or maybe said the right things but ‘those guys’ were too dumb to appreciate him—

To her credit, she said nothing and simply stared, her face going a bit pale, her eyes widening ever so slightly.

“You mean like you, don’t you?” Castiel repeated hotly, his voice loud in the silent apartment. Even Jack’s tail had stopped thumping against the floor, no longer wagging. 

The puppy looked between them. 

Naomi didn’t say a word, but she shook her head, her earrings swinging against her neck. She looked as nauseous as he felt, but for some reason, he didn’t feel bad. He felt vengeful.

With anger, he stepped back into the room and pointed at her with a trembling finger. “I will never want you, Naomi. I will _never_ love you, do you understand? I’m gay!” he snarled in his voice that was rough and trembling, like he’d swallowed gravel. “I’m gay, okay? I know you’ve been trying to convince yourself I’m not—hell, trying to convince _me_ that maybe I’m not, that I’ve got it all wrong. Trying to fucking convince me that every man I ever tried to connect with was wrong for me.”

“No—”

“What did you think was going to happen?” he growled, throwing his hands out to the side. “Did you think I’d wake up one day and realise you’ve been the love of my life this whole time? Did you think I’d change my mind about being gay, about the person I’ve always been? Did you think I’ve been faking it?”

“You are being _so_ ridiculous!” Naomi cried back, but he saw it: the flash of panic behind her eyes, the subtle step back she took, the bump of her knees against the couch cushions. 

Fury pumped stronger through him, stronger than he’d ever felt before, like it had been dormant in his heart his entire life, burrowed in the darkest recess of his chest, waiting for thirty-four years of rejection and people trying to dampen his spirit. Naomi, his mother, his foster homes, the kids in school, the fucking voice in his head that told him he was broken because he was too gay, or too shy, or too weird, or too awkward. 

“I hate you,” Castiel hissed, his hands shaking, uncaring about the shocked expression on her face and the shine of tears welling up across her wide blue eyes. “I will never want you. We will _never_ be together, okay? You have been manipulating me for years, but I was too lonely to let myself believe it. I’ve been holding onto you because you gaslighted me into thinking this ‘friendship’ was meaningful, was supportive. But you have been nothing but a source of doubt. You’ve twisted my mind, killed any relationship I’ve ever tried to begin, destroyed anything I’ve ever tried to do on my own. God, why did it take me _so long_ to let myself realize this? How did I—”

“I can’t listen to this,” Naomi choked out, ducking down to grab her purse from the couch and throwing Sam's phone down onto the cushions. "I'm leaving."

"Yes, go," Castiel said wetly, sniffing hard and breathing through his mouth, a series of hitched sounds. "And leave your key. You won't be needing it anymore."

* * *

Naomi left her key. 

She left her key, and she left the door open, and she left Sam's phone sitting centered on a couch cushion. 

After Castiel forced himself to unglue his feet from their spot in the bedroom hallway to close the front door, he turned around to stare at the phone on the couch. He inhaled deeply, noting that his coffee was definitely smelling burned and his breakfast was certainly cold by now, though regardless, he couldn't bear the thought of eating. 

All he could think of was Naomi and fourteen years of friendship down the drain. 

And, of course, all he could think of was Dean. 

Following the staunch scent of burnt coffee grounds (and the slight hint of dog poop, Jack must've taken the situation into his own hands—paws), Castiel stopped in front of the machine and stared at the yellow sticky note with Dean's writing. 

_"At the hospital. Call you later. D."_

‘D’. Not ‘love, D’. Just ‘D’, like even the scratchy capital letters were trying to hold him at an arms’ length.

Regardless, Castiel turned off the coffee machine and snatched the note off the front, scrunching it up in his one hand while the other poured the sharp, dark coffee into the sink. He watched it swirl down the drain with distaste. 

He tossed his breakfast too, scraping it into the garbage before he returned to the living room where Jack was lying down on the couch, Castiel's shirt from yesterday between his paws as he tore out a strip of cotton with his teeth. 

Castiel had half a mind and enough anger to take off the Garbage t-shirt he wore and tell Jack to have at it. Instead, he did something worse in his hurt. 

Dropping down onto the cushion beside Jack, Castiel picked up Sam's phone with the intention of texting someone—Charlie, maybe Hannah—to let them know Sam's phone was here. But...as soon as he opened the messaging app, his eyes fell on the top text message. 

Dean. 

It would be wrong to look. This was an invasion of privacy and he did not condone violating the trust of his partner nor his partner's brother in this way. Still… 

_‘Didn’t wake up in an ice tub with a kidney gone. Though, the dude was weird enough that I’d consider that a close call.’_

Blinking away a wave of heat that radiated from his chest to his face and down his spine, he felt fresh anxiety emerge with a vengeance, blooming from the ashes of the short-lived self confidence, protection, love he'd felt yesterday. With shaking fingers, he clicked into the message thread and began reading. 

A lot of it was silly brotherly banter, and even short, brisk messages that clearly meant they'd argued not long before. Another whole bunch of their messages were pictures: California beaches, Sam's Dungeons and Dragons character sheets, his dog, even selfies of Hannah and Sam on their few face-to-face dates. 

Dean, on the other hand, sent Sam memes, snapshots of the Impala post-washing, and pictures of the store. Recently, Dean had sent Sam a picture of a beer set on a mantle in front of a large bay window facing out onto the autumn city street, and another of a pumpkin with a dick carved into it. Castiel could only bitterly assume those were pictures of Dean's home—because after all, he'd never been there himself. 

While Sam spoke more and more about Hannah as the weeks went by, sending not only selfies, but screenshots of cute things she said, or cheesy, endearing pick up lines from Sam that Dean teased him mercilessly about, there was a marked absence of anything from Dean about dating. Not a single mention of Castiel, or their dates, or the countless evenings and weekends they’d spent together over the last month and change. Dean didn’t even mention having a crush on anyone.

The worst was that while Dean hadn’t yet mentioned him or indicated at all that he’d continued to see him after the music festival, he _did_ allude to him—cruelly.

> Sam | 4:36pm (September 31st, 2019): plans tonight? Charlie said Tool was playing in Kansas City tonight, i’m surprised you’re not going
> 
> Dean | 4:43pm (September 31st, 2019): jokes on you, jolly green. Got two tickets
> 
> Sam | 4:45pm (September 31st, 2019): oh nice, who are you going with?
> 
> Dean | 4:46pm (September 31st, 2019): some guy
> 
> Sam | 4:47pm (September 31st, 2019): Why am I scared to ask? Someone I know?
> 
> Dean | 4:48pm (September 31st, 2019): remember the serial killer from the bar? He sucks some mean dick so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Sam | 4:47pm (September 31st, 2019): How are we even related?

The excuses and half-lies got worse as time went on. By the time Castiel had reached the most recent text exchanges from just last night, a brief exchange from the early hours of the morning—Dean must’ve stayed up after Castiel fell asleep—he felt sick. It turned out Dean _had_ mentioned him by name once and immediately Castiel regretted finding out. He wished he hadn’t seen the messages, he wished Naomi had never brought him this heartache.

> Sam | 12:37am (October 21st, 2019): dude where are you? Hannah and I got back from the movie at like 9:30 and you’re still not back home. 
> 
> Dean | 12:39 (October 21st, 2019): relax, mother hen. Haven’t had a curfew since I was 9. Let me live
> 
> Sam | 12:40am (October 21st, 2019): Just weird that you let me borrow the Impala and then disappear for hours without even texting to make sure I haven’t spilled anything on her seat or left fingerprints on the dash, that’s all. Where are you?
> 
> Dean | 12:39 (October 21st, 2019): remember Hannah’s cousin? Im at his place
> 
> Sam | 12:40am (October 21st, 2019): Cas? I didn’t even know you even remembered his name after the festival. You’re at Cas’s place? It’s like 1 in the morning
> 
> Sam | 12:43am (October 21st, 2019): WAIT. NO
> 
> Sam | 12:43am (October 21st, 2019): NO
> 
> Sam | 12:43am (October 21st, 2019): DEAN NO. he’s hannah’s cousin, tell me hes straight and that you haven’t tried to fuck him.
> 
> Dean | 12:47 (October 21st, 2019): should I lie then? 
> 
> Sam | 12:49am (October 21st, 2019): Jesus christ how could you even do this to me? I finally meet a girl and you decide to fuck your way through her family??? You did this to me at prom when you made out with my dates sister, and with jess’ aunt in college. Fucking COME ON dude. Why do you always do this
> 
> Dean | 12:56 (October 21st, 2019): right, my bad
> 
> Dean | 12:57 (October 21st, 2019): don't worry, sammy. He doesnt mean anything. Just something to do.

There wasn’t much after that. As he sat there staring at the messages, Sam did receive a few texts from friends asking whoever found the phone to reach out, but Castiel didn’t answer them. Actually, he set the phone on his coffee table before easing himself down onto the couch until he was lying on his back. With his eyes closed, his face hot and lashes dampening, he blindly reached to the side and tugged a blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over his body and up over his head. Under the darkness of the blanket, memories rushed back to the forefront of his mind and made his heart feel like it was crumbling to dust.

All the memories Castiel had cherished as sweet, teasing moments between him and Dean suddenly took on a sinister edge.

_“‘Uriel’? Do you only keep friends who have weird-as-fuck names like yours?”_

_“Did you hide all the bodies?”_

_“Ugh, no offence, dude, but you’re a nerd.”_

_“Dude, why do you say everything like it hurts you to speak. What, do you not have fun often?”_

_“Why do you hug like such an alien?”_

And Sam’s words at dinner, words that Castiel had tried to ignore or make excuses for, suddenly felt very true. He had blamed Naomi for the way the words had made him feel, as if they’d been all her fault, but the truth was Dean’s own brother—the person who seemed to know him best—had Dean pinned as the type of person who used other people.

_“He can’t even make good decisions about his hookups, much less someone to date.”_

_“He’s just not interested in long-term stuff, I guess? Not really his thing.”_

_“He tells me everything, so I think he’d tell me if he was dating someone. Dude loves to brag about his conquests.”_

_“He's more of the hookup type. Love ‘em and leave.”_

And while Castiel tried to fight the negative feelings by trying to pull up those memories of vulnerability between him and Dean, Naomi’s voice rang clear in his mind; perhaps Dean had only been vulnerable to gain sympathy, to guarantee sexual favours. 

_“If crying and being vulnerable with you means I don’t get sweet lovin’ afterwards, then I’m never gonna squeeze a single tear out in your presence again, angel face.”_

_“But I want to. At least, I think I do? I dream about it, sometimes. With...With you, at least. You… You make me feel comfortable, Sunshine. If I wanted to, with anyone, it’d be you.”_

Under the blanket, Castiel let himself sniff wetly and allowed a tear to fall. It dribbled down the side of his face as the truth crashed down on him in the light of the crushing realization; Dean had used him. Dean got what he wanted by giving Castiel the illusion of being wanted and relied on. God, he felt so stupid. He should’ve just listened to Naomi from the start.

With a burning humiliation, he heard his own soft voice in his head, _“You being here makes me feel not so alone. I don’t feel misunderstood. You don’t make me feel like an unwanted, anxious loser.”_

Dean had gotten what he wanted. He’d gotten comfort and reassurance, and he’d used Castiel for all he could give him. And then, he’d left the next morning without a word more than the ones he’d left on a sticky note. 

Even if Dean _had_ felt a single true emotion for Castiel, he had run from Lee when the going got tough, when he’d shared a moment so intimate that it was traumatic. Maybe last night had been the nail in the coffin. 

Dean had run, hadn’t he? 

He wasn’t going to come back, he wasn’t going to call. And even if he did, would any word out of his mouth be truthful? Could Castiel even trust that he wasn’t being puppeteered by someone who wanted to explore themselves in a safe space that no one knew existed, with a person he didn’t want anyone to know about? With someone—a creepy, anxious, lonely loser—he wanted to hide?

When Castiel finally summoned the dregs of his courage to sit back up and let the blanket fall away from his face to puddle around his waist, Castiel reached for his phone—his own phone—and blocked Dean’s number. 

It was heart-shattering, knowing he’d likely never see Dean again. The feeling made his limbs feel heavy and filled with lead as he dragged himself to his bedroom, leaving his and Sam’s phone behind. 

He’d had enough of being someone no one wanted to love. If he was going to be abandoned again by someone he desperately wanted recognition from, he’d separate himself first. 

With the bedroom door closed behind him, he stripped the sheets he’d slept in with Dean and pushed them to the bottom of his hamper. After making the bed up again with a feeling of buzzing numbness, he climbed under the covers and willed his mind to sleep away the day, hating the vague smell of coconut and worn cologne that clung to his mattress anyway.


	10. Tough Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kradarua for betaing this chapter and being just a very lovely person in general. <3

It had been two days since Dean left without a word, two days since the sticky note had been left on Castiel’s coffee machine, and two days since he’d turned Sam’s phone off. It had been a day and a half since he’d turned his own phone off. 

All it had taken was one text from Hannah saying, “Hey, Cuz. I’ll be staying with Sam, considering everything that’s going on. It’s all so terrible. Text me when you’re done with work and we’ll talk.”

Castiel had no interest in talking to Hannah. Especially not about Dean, especially not when she’d clearly chosen the Winchesters over him. Especially not when she now apparently knew about Castiel’s breakup—though he doubted he could call it a breakup when he’d never had a real relationship to start with. It meant that Dean had told them about being with Castiel—he’d probably painted him as a clingy hookup who creeped him out—and _still_ Hannah had chosen them over him. It was insulting considering how Castiel had let her into his home, toured her around, and introduced her to his friends.

He was also incredibly jealous of her. Coiled deeply around the roots of his hurt was jealousy; she was off likely having a three day lie-in with the nice Winchester, with the one who didn’t treat others like warm holes that he pretended to like in order to pass the time. She wasn’t ‘something to do’. 

Castiel, apparently, was still just ‘something to do’, even for his cousin. Clearly, he existed to entertain her for the occasional weekend in the name of ‘family bonding’, but only until she found a boyfriend. After realising that he’d been nothing but a sounding board for Dean’s emotional problems, it added fire to the flame that Hannah, too, had used Castiel as someone to talk to, as just another way to deal with her mother disowning her. “It’s nice to have family who I can relate to,” she’d said to him on the phone months ago when they’d discussed their horrible mothers and their upbringing, just before she’d suggested her first visit in over ten years. 

Turned out, she’d used him as a sounding board. Someone to listen until she found someone better.

So he shut off his phone. For someone who didn’t think of himself as having many friends, the day Dean left, Castiel’s phone blew up. He got texts from Naomi—paragraphs he didn’t have the energy to read—and texts from Uriel. To Uriel’s credit, he’d tried calling first, and emailing from both his personal and work email, and texting him _again_ when Castiel didn’t open any of them. If Uriel was worried enough to bother him so persistently, it meant Naomi had either rushed off to tell him all about their fight or told him all about the texts. Neither case meant anything good; it meant either Uriel had heard Naomi’s side of the story and agreed with her, or that he’d heard about Dean and pitied him. 

Castiel had no interest in either of those conversations. He felt a bit bristled that Naomi and Uriel were even becoming friends. Unlikely friends, but friends.

Hell, _Sam_ had even texted him, which was strange. He wasn’t sure why Sam would’ve bothered to get his number—they hadn’t ever texted before—but Castiel figured Hannah had given it to him, or worse, Dean had when he’d realised he’d been blocked. Either way, as soon as Castiel saw “ _Hey Castiel, it’s Sam. Dean’s brother. Can you please—_ ” in the message preview, he’d closed the app. 

While it had been his own choice to cut off communication with everyone, it still felt lonely. He felt more lonely than he had in his entire life, because this time, it wasn’t that he didn’t have anyone to mourn. This time, he’d voluntarily chosen to cut people out. This time, he had the option to _not_ be lonely, but he’d chosen loneliness because it was better than the pain of backstabbing friends.

Of course, he only got to feel lonely on his off hours. During work, he couldn’t escape Uriel. Not when the man glared at him through their morning team video conference calls as Zachariah droned on about new labour legislation that he found too liberal, blah, blah, blah. 

On Thursday, half a day after turning off his phone, Uriel pulled a fast one on him.

“Hester, you’re going to get me those health and safety reports by nine AM?” Zachariah asked, tapping at his keyboard and looking distracted.

Castiel glanced at the time; It was 8:54AM. 

He saw Hester’s eyes do the same, but she nodded and said slowly, “Of course, sir.”

“Great, so we’re done here,” Zachariah said sharply, before gazing up from his keyboard and waving vaguely to the screen. “I expect vacation requests for the rest of the year from all of you in my inbox by 10AM. Can’t promise any of it will be approved, you know how busy we get this time of year. But I’ll consider your petitions, should they not conflict with anything important—”

‘Anything important’ meant _Zachariah’s_ vacation, of course.

“Anyway, that’s all. Have a productive day, everyone—”

“Castiel,” Uriel barked quickly, speaking over their boss after clearing his throat loudly. He straightened the collar of the crisp white dress shirt under a black blazer—no doubt paired with loose shorts or potentially just boxers just south of the webcam frame, “if you wouldn’t mind staying on the call, I’d like to go over the new hire information you recently inputted into the system.”

“I’m very busy,” Castiel started.

But Zachariah’s eyes flashed and he sat up straighter in his creaky leather chair. “Uriel, was there a mistake during the upload?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, and Uriel smirked. “Yes, sir.”

 _Liar,_ Castiel thought, his jew clenching. He’d double checked and cross-referenced just to be sure that he hadn’t missed anyone—But he didn’t bother trying to correct Uriel. Zachariah hated ‘excuses’. 

“You fix those errors, Castiel,” Zachariah said coldly, his buggy eyes squinting. “I won’t have mistakes happening during this upload. This client _will_ drop us for any missteps and I won’t have you ruin a million dollar account—”

“I’ll handle it, sir,” Uriel cut in, his teeth looking extra white between his dark lips as he grinned that shit-eating grin that Castiel wanted to glare off his face. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“I certainly do.”

Hester’s chair creaked too as she cleared her throat awkwardly. “Can I go? I have a report due in five—four minutes.”

Zachariah’s brows raised. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

A moment later, Zachariah left the chat.

Hester’s head swung down to her chest and she mimed bashing her keyboard against her forehead. “Kill me.”

“You deserve a raise, woman,” Uriel chuckled. “Hey, if you want, I can have Mistakes McGee delete you out of the employee records?”

Castiel grew hot in the cheeks as he insisted, “I did _not_ delete anyone out of the system! There were no errors on that upload, Uriel—”

“I’ve got to go,” Hester interrupted, groaning. “He wants me to report on our team’s health and safety. What do I even say about a team of six people who work from home? I’ve already implemented mandatory stretches at your desks every two hours. And he won’t let us invest in sit-stand desks, despite all the ergonomics research I’ve submitted to him—”

“Well, I do have a sharp pain in my ass from this job,” Uriel offered with an exaggerated shrug. “But I don’t know if it’s the shitty computer chair, my occasional sciatica, or Zachariah himself. Willing to bet on the latter, though. Any health and safety suggestions?”

“Tequila,” Hester said dryly before she left the chat, too.

“Tried that already,” Uriel rumbled with a sigh. “All it did was make me sign every email with ‘Breast Regards’ and the hangover sucked. Worst Tuesday ever.”

“Uriel,” Castiel began, anxiety seizing in his chest as he was left alone with the friend he’d been ignoring for a few days, “I’m really _very_ busy today and I’m sure whatever errors you think I’ve made can be summarized in an email—”

“Quick question,” Uriel interrupted, barrelling over Castiel with his deep baritone.

Sighing and pursing his lips, Castiel nodded. “Yes, of course, but quick—”

“Have you completely forgotten how to use your emails? Did you lose your phone? Drop it off a cliff? Did your dumb dog eat it then throw it up again?”

While the questions were silly, Uriel’s tone—for once—was not. He wasn’t smiling, he was scowling and one of his eyebrows was raised in question.

After an awkward pause, Castiel adjusted some documents on his desk and muttered, “That was four questions.”

“Boy, don’t even start with me, I will shove those four questions right up your—”

“I’ve been preoccupied,” Castiel grunted, fixing Uriel with a half-glare, half-wince. “I haven’t gotten a chance to check your emails.”

Uriel pointed a finger at his webcam and snapped, “Casti-fuckin’-el, don’t you lie right to my damn face.” The finger swirled around, gesturing at his screen and his growl deepened. “I put motherfucking read receipts on those messages and your stupid ass keeps accepting them!”

Right.

Shit.

“It’s a habit,” Castiel blurted out, “I can’t not click ‘accept’. Something is wrong with me. Since when do you send read receipts anyway? You always said read receipts are a way to say ‘you can’t be trusted to do anything without a prompt’.”

“If the shoe fits,” Uriel said bluntly, scowling. “Now you gonna tell me what’s going on? Naomi’s given me the rundown, so I get why she’s been voted off the island, but I have no idea why _my_ ass is being ignored—”

Ugh. Naomi. Castiel didn’t want to talk about Naomi, and he did not want to even begin to talk about why Uriel and Naomi were buddies all of a sudden.

“I have to go,” Castiel grunted and before Uriel had a chance to speak, he left the chat. He knew there were no goddamn errors in his upload, so if Uriel wanted to talk about interpersonal drama, he’d just have to wait until Castiel had the willpower to do it.

That did not go over so well with Uriel. By the end of the day, Uriel had emailed him five times and tried to voice call him on three separate occasions. Castiel logged off early, uncaring if Zachariah wrote him up for it, and decided to nap. With his anxiety and grief amplified, he decided being awake wasn’t preferable, and as soon as Jack curled up beside him, he was out like a light under a wool blanket.

Of course, that didn’t last long. Three hard knocks on his door jolted him from his sleep. Jack had no regard for where his paws landed as he barked incessantly and bounced over Castiel, stomping on his lap and across his chest. Pushing off Castiel’s face, Jack leapt over the arm of the couch and skidded across the floor towards the door.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Castiel growled, pressing down at his crotch where Jack had stepped on every family jewel he possessed. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled over to the door and groaned, doubled over for a second before he pressed his hand to the scratch marks he no doubt had on his cheek from Jack’s little demon nails. Still groggy, he leaned forward and peered through the peephole, only to find it pitch black. 

Stepping back, he opened the door in order to find out who had roused him from sleep and still had the audacity to cover the peephole with their—

Uriel dropped his hand from the peephole and swept into the apartment, pushing past Castiel and stepping over Jack, who bounced up to snap at his hands.

“Do I look like a ditchable prom date to you?” Uriel yelled, the typical slow gravel of his tone sounding odd with his voice raised. He turned on Castiel, putting his hands at his sides. It was odd to see him wearing work clothes in-person—black suit, crisp white dress shirt open at the top buttons, and thankfully, actual pants and not boxer shorts like Castiel always imagined.

“I—” Castiel started, but Uriel held up a hand.

“I ain’t Naomi or Hannah,” Uriel barked, his round shoulders tight and his lips turned down into a scowl. “I’m not gonna sit around and just accept your unwarranted cold shoulder. I didn’t do shit to you, got it? What is _wrong_ with you?”

Sufficiently scolded, and feeling intensely guilty now that he didn’t have the impersonality of a computer—it was easier to ignore people when they were nothing but words on a screen—Castiel shuffled his feet and closed the front door.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted, scratching at his grown-out stubble. “I’ve been...dealing with personal issues and needed time away from everyone.”

“Boo hoo,” Uriel snapped, literally clicking his fingers at Castiel in anger. “We’re all dealing with personal shit; that’s life. Now you gonna tell me why you had a tiff with Naomi or—”

“This isn’t _about_ Naomi!” Castiel insisted, though he paused to address Jack as the puppy continued to bark at Uriel. “Jack, for the love of God, _please!”_

Jack dropped his bum and sat down beside Uriel’s feet, looking between them and whining, his big eyes demanding that _someone_ pet him. 

“So, what?” Uriel asked, tossing his arms out to the side and shifting his weight onto one hip. “So Dean says some mean shit over texts and the world loses all colour?”

“She told you,” Castiel said bluntly, his shoulders sagging. He knew it.

“Yeah, she fuckin’ told me,” Uriel said, his eyes wide. “The woman is a complete psycho—stealin’ phones, going through messages. I get why she was all over Samuel: the woman was on a damn mission to get any information she could. So yeah, she told me. She was all weepy at my place telling me about how you yelled at her and were horrible and I knew she was full of shit. The only time I’ve seen you yell was when they closed down Four Horseman Burgers for good, so I knew she was leaving out information. Took a bit of prying, but eventually she confessed to her shit.”

Of course she’d tried to make it seem like he was the bad guy. Swallowed in a blast-wave of anger, Castiel didn’t reply at first. He stayed silent, and at his sides his nails left semi-circles in his palms. 

“I just needed a couple days of peace,” Castiel growled finally, staring at the floor. “After finding out the things Dean said, the way he was using me, I…”

Uriel’s neck craned forward and his brows raised onto his forehead expectantly. 

When Uriel didn’t provide the end of that sentence, Castiel choked out, “I was humiliated, embarrassed. I knew word would get around that I shut Dean out, that we’re not together anymore, so I just—I only wanted everyone to leave me alone for a few days so I could—God, I am so humiliated.” 

Castiel brought his hands up to his eyes, ashamed to be losing his cool in front of Uriel. He knew they were good friends, but he didn’t know if they were the kind of good friends that got weepy in front of each other. When Uriel had ended his own relationship, he’d coped by getting drunk and making jokes until he passed out on his bed. 

With his eyes stinging, Castiel wished he could deal with his pain in the same way. 

“So...you didn’t shut us all out because of the thing with Naomi. You... _broke up with Dean?”_ Uriel asked suddenly.

When Castiel dropped his hands, he found Uriel gaping at him. “Yes, of course.”

“You broke up with him _now?_ ” Uriel asked, stepping back and looking perturbed. He scratched at his smooth head and his lips twisted into a grimace. “That’s cold, Castiel.”

“ _Cold?_ ” Castiel repeated, aghast. He stepped towards Uriel, anger heating his cheeks. “Naomi was right all along, wasn’t she? He used me, he didn’t even _like_ me.”

Uriel raised his hands. “Hey, listen, maybe I shouldn’t say anything, maybe it’s not my place, but the timing just seems harsh. Whatever issues y’all had, if it were me? I’d wait, and then I’d try to talk it out. Shame to see everything fall apart, especially now that Dean—”

“How,” Castiel growled, “can something fall apart if it wasn’t ever real to begin with? He hadn’t told anyone about us, Uriel. You and Naomi were the only ones who knew. Not Sam, not Hannah, not a single fucking soul. What exactly do you want from me here?!”

“Start with gratitude,” Uriel interrupted, his voice loud but not angry. He was surveying Castiel steadily.

“Gratitude?” Castiel parroted, his head tilting. “What _exactly_ should I be grateful for?”

Uriel slid his hand into the pocket of his slacks and tugged out his phone, wriggling it around in the air. “Friends, Castiel. For all your lamenting about being lonely, you sure got a network of people worried about you. Naomi can’t talk about literally anyone else,” Uriel said, though his tongue suggested he was somewhat annoyed. “Hannah’s worried that you’ve shut yourself out, she doesn’t understand because you never filled her in about Dean-o. She _still_ doesn’t know—”

“I didn’t fill her in but neither did Dean,” Castiel countered hotly.

“—and even Sam’s been askin’ Hannah why you’re not picking up your damn phone. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but does he know Dean’s funk has to do with you. He’s been trying to get in contact with you because his damn brother hasn’t left his bedroom in days and he needs help with the arrangements. Look, maybe Dean told him about you, maybe Dean said something—”

“Doubtful,” Castiel grunted, sweeping past Uriel to drop down onto the couch, social fatigue already settling deeply into his bones. _This_ was why he needed some time away from people, everything was too confusing.

“You and your doubts,” Uriel barked, snapping his fingers again, turning to survey Castiel over the back of the couch. “Pick yourself up from whatever bullshit you’re knee deep in and _talk_ to people. Talk to Dean because your lover’s spat has a gravitational pull and it’s pulling everyone into its damn orbit at a really bad time. Saturday is two days away and my phone won’t stop ringing off the hook because Hannah is freaking out over Sam, who needs help and isn’t getting it from Dean, and newsflash: she is not my cousin. And Naomi is not _my_ best friend. I did _not_ sign up for being everyone's rock when I became friends with y’all. I’m the funny guy, I tell jokes,” Uriel said, waving his hands at himself. He pointed at Castiel. “ You are the glue that holds this group together and you need to start being glue again, ‘cause I am the joke guy, not the chick-flicks-moment guy.”

Uriel paused, raising a finger. “Although I fuck with _You’ve Got Mail_.”

“So sorry to inconvenience everyone,” Castiel murmured bitterly, ignoring Uriel’s joke and picking up the blanket he’d been sleeping under to fold it angrily. “What, did you all have another music festival to go to on Saturday and my heartache is impeding everyone’s fun? I’m sorry that Dean isn’t being helpful or whatever, but if he was so concerned with me cutting him off, he should not have used me like a talking Fleshlight.”

Maybe the Fleshlight jab had gone too far, because Uriel stared at him, his wide eyes slowly narrowing and his scowl dropping open into a gape. “Wait… Do you not know?”

“Do I not know that Dean just wanted me for sex?” Castiel asked hotly, throwing the blanket over the back of the couch. “Yes, I knew that.”

“About Saturday?” Uriel murmured, gesturing over his shoulder like the weekend was standing there, staring at them. 

Castiel clapped his hands down on his thighs and shrugged irately. “It comes after Friday?”

It was _almost_ amusing how Uriel’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and his hand came up to his forehead. “Oh, hell. What a goddamn mess. I want to go back to being the funny guy; this is above my pay grade.”

Unsure what the hell Uriel was going on about, Castiel felt an increasing irritation inside him. He knew everyone thought of him as kind of awkward and not understanding of a lot of things, but purposefully being kept out of the loop was almost as infuriating. “What?” he demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Uriel surveyed him with the look of someone in way over his head as he rubbed at his forehead. “Man, this is not my news to break… You gotta go talk to Dean.”

“News?”

Uriel’s hand dropped to his side and he pocketed it, his wide lips pouted into a frown. After a moment where his dark eyes swept Castiel’s face, he sighed and tilted his head to the side. “You gotta go talk to Dean, all right? Do me a solid, as a friend, and please go figure out your shit with Dean, even if it means you air your grievances and then break it off officially. And do it soon. Do it tonight.” Uriel paused, glancing at the ceiling. “Do it right _now.”_

For some reason, Uriel, who otherwise had no incentive to give a shit about Dean, was urging him to deal with the tension. It was strange, and yet, Castiel knew he’d been unfair to Uriel over the past couple of days, and he was his friend, after all. His best friend at the moment, arguably. If for some stupid reason Uriel was being dragged into the crap between Dean and Castiel, that was on Castiel. How could he be angry at Uriel for being everyone’s messenger when he’d put him in that position? Castiel would go talk to Dean. He had to.

Although, the longer he grieved, the angrier he got. With every passing moment and urging from Uriel, Castiel wanted to give Dean a piece of his mind more and more.

“What do I do? What do I even say?” Castiel asked. “He...hurt me quite badly, Uriel. How—How do I face him?”

Uriel’s lips quirked up at one corner. Gently, he rumbled, “All you have to do is be unafraid.”

Castiel stared at his friend. 

He recalled every joyful moment he had with Dean—their date in Kansas City, the Tool show, consoling him with Chinese food and a hug, dancing in the living room, and their embrace after sex only a few nights ago—and then the messages on Sam’s phone: _Creepy. Loner. Something to do._

Dean didn’t deserve to get off easy. In his chest, a fire of indignant anger flared in his heart. He wasn’t afraid; he was pissed. 

“For the first time, in a long time—” Castiel murmured, “—I am.”

* * *

Using the last thirty-four-some years of his life as precedent, Castiel assumed his anger would fade into nerves the moment he stepped on Dean’s doorstep. As he walked up the steps of Dean’s duplex and paused to check which apartment was his on the directory, Castiel imagined himself knocking on the door and feeling that cold trickle of anxiety as he ‘chickened out’. He pictured himself forgetting all the things he wanted to say the moment Dean opened the door, forgiving Dean before he even spoke, caving to his smooth charm—or worse, seeing Dean in pain and caving to it, feeling bad for him, wanting to console him...

But apparently, the hurt was insurmountable this time. For the first time, as he told Uriel, he was unafraid.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled, knocking on the door again after getting no reaction to his initial wordless knock. “It’s Castiel!”

The door didn’t open right away, but unlike before, he heard movement on the other side.

He knocked again—more firmly, sharper, like his tone. “I have Sam’s phone, I just want to drop it—”

His fringe rustled softly in the breeze made as the door swung open and he found himself—for the tiniest, briefest moment—a bit breathless, on the precipice of feeling choked up at the sight of Dean. Somehow, he looked different and strangely smaller in the large room the doorway led directly into, a hallway foyer just off of a kitchen. For all of Dean’s jokes about his apartment being shitty, it was high-ceilinged, painted a crisp pale gray and open concept. Bright. Welcoming. Across the roomy living room, farthest from the door, was the large bay window Castiel had seen in pictures Dean had sent to Sam.

Dean was pale, his hair was dirty, and his clothing was wrinkled. The spaces around his eyes were so dark and sunken they almost looked bruised, and his green irises looked especially pigmented against the redness rimming his lashes. 

“Cas?” Dean asked raspily. 

The nickname that normally brought him so much joy, that had made him feel so unique and special, suddenly boiled his blood. The longing feeling he’d felt at first sight of Dean came to an abrupt halt. 

He jutted out Sam’s phone at Dean, standing an arm’s length away. “Sam’s phone,” Castiel grunted, his teeth clenching and jaw jumping. “Naomi found it after Uriel’s show. I wanted to return it before Sam left town.”

Dean swallowed strangely, almost like he would be sick. His eyes were sweeping across Castiel’s face like it was the first time he’d ever seen him. In an odd tone, Dean breathed, “Where have you been? I’ve been calling, texting—I-I—”

“I understand Sam decided to stay a bit longer,” Castiel interrupted—’cold as ice’ as Uriel would say. “Say goodbye to him for me. And goodbye to Hannah, too, since she’s decided to stay with him for now.”

Dean’s mouth was opening and closing, and he swallowed again in that odd way. It was almost like he was choking on his words. _Good_ , Castiel thought, the flame of his anger licking at his heart. _Be upset._

“What’s going on?” Dean asked faintly, rubbing a shaking hand over his mouth, his lashes fluttering. “W-Why—”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel spurned bluntly. His fist curled at his side and he shook the phone in his hand. “Take the phone, I want to go.”

Dean stared at the phone, eyes almost unfocused. His tongue dragged over his dry, chapped bottom lip and it took a moment, but when Dean finally spoke, it was a weird withered rasp; “I’ve really needed you t-the last couple d—”

Castiel’s head tilted, and he felt it; cold, calculating and fuelled by contempt, hurt, fury. “You _needed_ me? What else is new?”

He almost felt bad—Dean winced like he’d been hit. “What”—his throat bobbed and he reached up, pressing a hand to the wall beside him—”does _that_ mean?”

“What does it mean?” Castiel repeated, raising his brows. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing; did you need _me_ or did you just need _something to do_?”

Dean went still and Castiel didn’t move either; he wanted the words to sink in, although apparently that didn’t require much time, because instantly Dean’s pale face got paler—almost entirely white like someone on the edge of passing out. 

He could’ve waited for Dean to say something, but his face said enough; he’d been caught and he knew it. Spurred by the sick satisfaction of _finally_ sticking up for himself, Castiel went on: “I would’ve never looked for those messages, Dean, to be clear. But Naomi doesn’t have the same respect for privacy that I do, and while it turns out she is a pretty terrible friend, she didn’t want me to be strung along anymore. I saw what you said. Everything you said to Sam about me.”

Dean’s fingers spread against the wall, the tips of his fingers going white against the pale grey paint. He stared somewhere south of Castiel’s chin, gaze unfocused and wet. After a few silent attempts to speak, he whispered, “I didn’t—I never—”

“You never thought I’d see them,” Castiel barrelled over him, wobbling the phone in the air between them. “You thought you could carry on feeding me sweet words, that you could keep telling me you were hiding our ‘relationship’”—he made air quotes with one hand—”because it was so _hard_ for you _emotionally_ to reveal what we had to your friends and family. You hoped I’d continue to be doe-eyed and fucking _stupid.”_

“I never meant any of it,” Dean blurted out, his tone thin. “I n-never meant anything I said in t-those messages. Just believe me—God, I’m—Sunshine, I’m so sor—”

“Don’t call me that!” Castiel snapped, stepping into the apartment and throwing Sam’s phone onto a table under a large mirror. It slid across the wood and thumped against the wall. Stepping back onto the threshold, Castiel hissed through his teeth, “I have done _everything_ for you. I’ve given you _everything,_ I gave you _more,_ and this is what you give to me—”

“Cas, please,” Dean begged, raising his shaking free hand up to his face, his fingers rubbing at his forehead and partially covering his eyes, which were unfairly covered in tears. What the fuck did _he_ have to be sad about? He’d brought this onto himself. His trembling chin only made Castiel more angry. 

“Please,” Dean whispered, his breath hitched. “I _can’t_ do this r-right now, I can’t—”

“You can’t _do this right now_?” Castiel snarled. “Really? You can’t even look me in the face, you can’t even do me the courtesy of looking at me when you’ve been caught in your lies? _You_ hurt _me_.” His chest ached as he poked at himself, his hands trembling now, too. “You _chose_ to call me a loner, and a creep, and a _loser_ , a—” Shit, he was getting choked up now, too, his anger bringing tears to his eyes like they had a magnetic pull. “A-A warm hole, I guess, wasn’t I? Something to do, someone to talk to because no one else gave a shit about your feelings, about your struggles. I was a fucking soundboard because you’ve been too chicken shit to talk to all these people who you have around you that support you?” He swept an arm out. “You have all of these people—” Fuck, his voice was shaking. “All of these people who loved you, who would’ve gladly listened to you, but you decided to fuck me and woo me into being your fucking secret keeper because you’re a _coward—_ ”

 _“_ Please.” Dean’s hands came up to his mouth, and immediately Castiel was jolted from his rage, the red draining from his vision as Dean’s shoulders heaved: he was hyperventilating, his white, drained skin shining as tears fell from sandy, clumped lashes, sweat beading at his hairline. 

“Please,” Dean repeated in a wheeze between thin breaths into his palms. “I c-can’t do this. My dad—My—He’s—”

And _there_ was the moment Castiel had imagined on his way to Dean’s place. The moment that his anger extinguished like a flame on the wick of a candle and was gone, just like that. The moment where he felt intense sympathy and the urge to comfort.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, stepping forward and reaching out, his hand hovering over Dean’s shoulder. “What—”

“My dad—" Dean’s uneven, harsh breaths sped up. “He’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left! It's gonna be a big one, methinks.
> 
> (I mean, it'll be the last one if I don't, hypothetically, write an epilogue.)


	11. Something of His Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well...what do we have here? A FINAL CHAPTER? A long-ass, 13k, big ol' final chapter.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's been a joy, truly. 
> 
> Thank you to the betas for this chapter & the epilogue: MalMuses and CaptainHaterade—Y'all are da best. Sorry 'bout all the commas.
> 
>  **WARNING** : This chapter includes depictions of grief, so please use your best judgement if you don't think you can handle that. I understand of you don't read this chapter, I'd just rather you take care of yourselves. <3
> 
> Music: [Tears In Heaven - Eric Clapton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqtyQuXo9zM)

_“Dean?” Castiel asked, stepping forward and reaching out, his hand hovering over Dean’s shoulder. “What—”_

_“My dad—" Dean’s uneven, harsh breaths sped up. “He’s dead.”_

* * *

It took some clumsy maneuvering because he didn’t know the layout of Dean’s apartment, but eventually, Castiel steered a panicking Dean Winchester into the bathroom.

“Sit,” Castiel urged gently, helping Dean down onto the edge of his tub, shoving the shower curtain out of the way. “Tell me what you need.”

Between thinly drawn sobs, Dean made a few attempts to speak, but in the end he gave up and waved at the mirror above the sink as he breathed through chattering teeth, “Cabinet.”

A very large part of Castiel was still livid about the texts. Many of Naomi's judgements about Dean still rang through his mind like a gong, like she was hissing them right into his ear. He knew he'd regurgitated many of her words when he'd been yelling at Dean in the doorway, like she'd been right over his shoulder puppeteering his tongue. Live anger still buzzed through him like electricity even though Dean seemed to be having a very real mental breakdown in front of him. A mean little voice in his mind was saying Dean was playing the situation for sympathy, for a way out of owning up to his douchebaggery.

But a much, _much_ larger part of him, a part of him he recognized as himself and not Naomi, felt intense grief for Dean. He knew how much Dean's father meant to him, he knew the anguish Dean already felt about his relationship with his father even before his death. There had been unfinished business between them, so much emotional neglect and pain. Now it would be truly unresolved, and the horror of that was etched right into Dean's features, into the lines of his face and the shining tracks down his cheeks. He heard very palpable pain in Dean’s voice and in the thin, drawn sobs.

So he turned to the cabinet that Dean has pointed to with the same sense of confidence he'd felt a few nights ago, fuelled by the understanding that he could take the lead, that he could be looked upon to make decisions—

Castiel stopped dead, freezing abruptly after he tugged open the mirror above the sink. In shock, his eyes scanned slowly over the medicine cabinet shelves, and he felt lost as he tried to count the rows upon rows of orange pill bottles, but lost count. Some were full, while others were half-finished or nearly empty. 

He licked at his lips and asked in a low rasp, "Which...one?"

"S—" Dean inhaled in a gasp, tugging at his t-shirt collar with trembling fingers. "S-Starts with an 'x'."

Giving his head one firm little shake, Castiel reached forward with both hands, turning the pill bottles and piling them into his hands so he could get the wrong ones out of his way. They rattled and shook, making noises like rain sticks as he deposited them into the counter, making a mess, really. But eventually—

"I think I found it." Castiel pushed about half a dozen bottles aside after finally finding one that started with an 'X'. He turned towards Dean and kneeled in front of him, his knee cracking uncomfortably on the cold tiled floor. He held up the bottle so Dean could see, but his green eyes were thick with tears and blinking hard, so that was probably useless. "Is this the one?"

The noise of Dean's fast, erratic gasps for breath were worse in the small room, louder as they echoed off the tiled walls—Castiel might've taken a few extra moments to admire how charming and clean the bathroom was if it wasn’t for the pharmacy’s worth of pill bottles on the counter and Dean having a full-blown panic attack on the edge of the tub. The gulps for air, the hitched, hiccuped sobs, and the heaving of Dean's shoulders brought Castiel his own anxiety, revving up like an engine even though Dean nodded in response to his question.

"Take one," Castiel insisted, popping open the top and shaking one small tablet into his own hand. "Come now. Swallow, and then we'll wait for it to kick in."

It was a struggle, because Dean didn't seem to be listening. He had his hand pressed to his forehead and his eyes were closed as he tried to take full breaths and failed. 

"I can't breathe," Dean kept whispering, his lashes pressed to his cheeks as he scrunched his eyes shut. "I can't breathe."

His other hand was curled into a tight fist against his stomach, and it took some deliberate finagling for Castiel to pry his fingers open. "Dean, listen. You can breathe. If you can speak, you can breathe. Listen. _Listen—"_ With one tablet pressed into his palm, Castiel raised his hands and pressed his fingers into Dean's jawline gently. "Look at me, and take this pill from my hand. Swallow it and we can breathe together for a few counts—"

"He's dead. My dad is _dead_ , and S-Sam's angry with me, and you _hate_ me—" More tears. More wheezing, panicked hyperventilating, and Dean's green eyes were unfocused yet wild. "I can't stand this, I just want to sleep. I-I just want this to be over."

Castiel had to either act fast or call an ambulance fast, because Dean's lips were turning white and he was beginning to worry maybe the panic attack could _actually_ close his airways. He was fairly sure that wasn't possible but suddenly all his first aid training (that Hester had put them all through for no damn reason other than to look good on some report) seemed to leak out of his ears.

Still, he must have retained some of it, or he was good enough at figuring it out as he went along, because he eventually got the pill on Dean's tongue and they sat together in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes while Castiel counted breaths out loud. He'd seen it on YouTube—eight in, eight out. 

The breathing techniques never worked for his own anxiety, but they seemed to do something for Dean, because eventually, the bathroom was quiet again and instead of terror and panic, Dean's eyes were lucid and filled with his usual turmoil. 

He stared quietly at the floor between their legs. The trembling in his hands was minimal, though it lingered, and the redness in his face was more a humiliated flush. The green in his eyes reminded Castiel of emeralds—shining and rich. If he wasn't so furious with him, or so torn between pity and sympathy, he might've taken a second to appreciate how beautiful his eyes were. 

“Wish I could sleep. I’m living in a nightmare," Dean whispered at the floor. 

_Same_ , Castiel thought bitterly, but he cleared his throat and grasped onto the sink, grunting as he got to his feet, his knees cracking. “Come,” he ordered in a rumbling murmur, holding out his hand. “I’ll help you to bed and get out of your hair.”

To his surprise, as he bent down to take Dean’s forearm and moved to pull him to his feet, Dean tugged, remaining on the edge of the tub, his green eyes big and earnest as he stared at Castiel.

“I don’t want you out of my hair, Cas. A-And I can’t go to bed now that you’re here.” He went quiet for a moment, staring, his hand warm and sweaty around Castiel’s fingers. Thinly, blinking slowly, Dean murmured, “All I’ve wanted to do was see you.”

Castiel lowered himself slowly into a crouch, his heart sinking and chest aching. He wanted so desperately to still be angry, to amplify that small voice inside him that wanted to protect him from being used again, but that huge part of him that loved Dean was winning. 

“You said you want to sleep,” Castiel said. “I’m sure you’re heartbroken, you’re mourning, and I understand that you probably just want to be in bed—”

“I’ve been there for days,” Dean breathed, his eyes closing slowly and squeezing for a moment. When he opened them, he looked thoroughly spent, the whites around his eyes tinged in red, the glaze of unshed tears thick. “Don’t wanna go to bed—”

“Dean—”

“You hadn't picked up your phone and Sam—” Dean sucked in a breath and ran his wrist under his running nose. Castiel’s eyes followed a tear as it slowly tumbled down the side of Dean’s nose. “S-Sam was asking me all these questions ‘bout the funeral and what m-my—our dad would’ve wanted. And my dad's laywer is calling, and then the hospital gave us all these bills the same day he fuckin’ died.”

Castiel exhaled slowly, licking his lips and staring across Dean’s face. He wanted to reach up and tuck a damp lock of hair behind Dean’s ear. The sandy hair that was always so clean and styled was flat and dirty, and wet where sweat clumped hair at his temples. 

“‘Couldn’t do it, couldn’t deal, couldn’t answer questions. I just shut down, went into my room, locked the door, and got under the covers. And then I missed my pills the last few days and that was making me feel sick and—and—”

Despite himself, Castiel caved and reached up, dragging his fingers through wet hair, carefully tucking an errant tuft behind Dean’s ear. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.”

Dean ignored him, his breath picking up again, his face cramped up and chin trembling. “And I could see I was leaving Sam to deal with everything and that made me feel real guilty, too. I k-know I should’ve been helping, but I couldn’t—And on top of that, I should’ve been thinkin’ about m-my d-dad, but all I've wanted to do was see you.”

Castiel lowered his gaze, his jaw clenching. He stared at the Led Zeppelin graphic on Dean’s t-shirt unblinkingly and he dropped his hand from Dean’s face, letting it land softly atop Dean’s thigh. His thumb brushed the skin exposed by a rip there.

“I a-ask…” Dean cleared his throat, and admitted hoarsely, “I asked Sam to text you. Think he was worried about me. He came and sat by my door for a while there a night or two ago until I talked, but I couldn’t. Not really. But I told him I wanted to see you. H-He doesn’t know why, but I guess he f-figures somethin’—”

“I know,” Castiel murmured, not bothering to explain that Sam had told Uriel, who’d told him. It didn’t matter, not really. “He’d messaged me, but I…didn’t read it, the text. I didn’t read any texts, I’d turned off my phone.”

“Oh,” Dean murmured, reaching up to wipe at his cheeks. “That’s why I couldn’t reach you. I-I’d called but it said your number was unavailable—”

“I blocked your number,” Castiel interrupted, lifting his eyes to catch Dean’s stare. The green eyes widened for a moment and Castiel saw a silent ‘oh’ on Dean’s lips again. With heaviness in his chest, Castiel repeated, “I blocked your number after Naomi showed me your messages.”

Dean’s lips pressed together hard and he nodded. This time, he was the one to drop his gaze, another thick tear snaking down his trembling cheeks. “Don’t blame you.”

They were quiet for a moment, but Castiel’s knees were aching and his heart was heavy, so he rose to his feet and held out his hands. “You said you want to sleep. Come, let’s get you back to bed—”

“I didn’t mean ‘em,” Dean pleaded suddenly, raising his head. His eyes were wet and pleading, his hands wringing between his knees. “I fucking _swear,_ Cas. I-I just—I told you, I didn’t want Sam to know, b-because I wanted you to m-myself—”

 _This_ again. Castiel shook his open palms and repeated, “I’ve heard this before, let’s just get you to—”

“And if Sam knew—” Dean dragged in a harsh breath and sniffled, before he breathed out through a pinhole made by his lips. “If Sam _knew,_ and it d-didn’t work out between us, he’d feel sorry for me. He’d worry, and I c-can’t have him worrying about me more than he already does.”

Castiel dropped his hands to his sides and he stared at Dean, but his resolve was shattering, because he could _see,_ plain as day, that Dean wasn’t lying. Of course, Naomi’s voice in the back of his head was whispering, _“You thought he was being genuine before, too. He could be fooling you again—”_

“ _—_ I can’t have him worry about me,” Dean rasped determinedly, his tone suddenly insistent. “You don’t get it, Cas. Sam, h-he’s my little brother—”

“He’s an adult, Dean.”

“He’s my little brother,” Dean repeated firmly, sniffing. “I’m supposed to be okay, and he’s supposed to think I’m doing f-fine, but he _doesn’t._ He doesn’t think that. He fucking worries about me all the time, he’s always checkin’ in on me and that’s _not_ how it’s supposed to be. I was a-always the big brother, his protector, and then…” Dean raised his shaking fingers and wiped at his cheeks again. “It would give him hope that I’m getting better, if-if he thought I’d found someone. I just didn’t want to give him another reason to worry, if...if you and me didn’t make it.”

“So you demeaned me, the idea of me instead,” Castiel said coldly, feeling that anger slowly creep back up as he stared down at Dean.

To his credit, Dean had the decency to look absolutely guilt-ridden and he nodded, damp bangs flopping against his forehead. “Yeah. I did. Knocked Sam off my trail. It was w-wrong, Cas, and it made me sick to my stomach every time I pretended I wasn’t seeing you, or that you were some random hookup. I swear, Cas, I swear I didn’t mean a word. I’m just a fucking trainwreck. I can’t do nothin’ right, and I was just keeping up appearances. I coped with the terror that you and me would fall apart by pretending to Sam I was this dickhead jock like I used to be. M-Maybe it was for Sam, b-but maybe it was for me. Cas, good… Good things don’t happen to me.” Dean’s chin trembled. 

It made sense. It really did. Dean rarely talked about anything other than Sam, and they’d stayed up numerous nights talking about their families. Castiel knew almost nothing about Mary or John Winchester, but he knew all about Sam. Dean’s little brother, his pain-in-the-ass little brother. He knew about every silly story Dean had about their childhood, and about every annoying habit he had that Dean said he hated by spoke about endearingly.

Of course Dean believed good things didn’t happen to him. His mother had died, the little brother he had been supposed to care for moved to another state, his half-brother took off. Dean struggled with his sexuality, and had lost some friends, and now his father was dead. 

Castiel knew, somehow, that Dean was telling the truth about everything, about every text. He wanted to doubt the intention behind the messages, but he knew that the man sitting in front of him was very flawed, and very broken, but he meant no harm. Dean never meant any harm, even if he caused it anyway. 

“You have bigger things to worry about right now than explaining some text messages that were never meant to be seen in the first place,” Castiel replied in a murmur. Instead of holding out his hands and expecting them to be taken, he leaned down and took Dean’s, wrapping his fingers around clammy palms. “But we can talk, if that’s what you want. Let’s just do it somewhere more comfortable than the bathroom floor.”

After one quick nod, Dean’s warm fingers wrapped around Castiel’s wrists and he allowed Castiel to lead him to the bedroom—a room that would’ve been charming with its exposed brick and big windows with a seat under the sill, if it wasn’t for the blinds completely drawn closed and the room a complete mess. The bed was a rumple of wrinkled covers, there was clothing all over the floor, and the bedside table was littered with glasses of water in varying states of emptiness. The lights were off; it was dark except for the glow of Dean’s phone under a lamp—plugged in, completely charged.

Waiting for a phone call.

“I really don’t want to sleep,” Dean said, sitting at the head of the bed, one leg hanging over the side of the mattress, the other curled in front of him. Castiel noticed a few rips at the bottom of his sweat pants and the persistent tremble in Dean’s hands as they tugged on a loose strand of grey cotton. “Not now that you’re here.”

Castiel pushed down the heavy, iron-like feeling of guilt in his stomach and paced the room, crossing his arms over his chest and only unlinking an arm to peer through Dean’s blinds out at the street. His own golden car was shining from the sun in the spot usually reserved for the Impala.

“When did this happen? Your—your father,” Castiel clarified, dropping the plastic blind and looking over his shoulder at Dean.

“T-Tuesday morning,” Dean replied hoarsely, his eyes hooded by grief and exhaustion as he stared dully in front of him at a picture hanging on the wall.

The muscles in Castiel’s body all clenched in tension and he stared at Dean, his face suddenly feeling cold and numb. 

Tuesday morning. Fuck. 

_At the Hospital. Call you later, D._

The morning Castiel had blocked his number, the same day he’d turned off his phone. 

“Dean…”

Still staring dully in front of him, his fingers slowly twining around the rip of fabric at his ankle, Dean said wetly, “I’ve just been laying here, feeling like shit because I miss my dad. But what’s worse is that I’m so _mad_.” 

Castiel turned around, his shoulders tight and his fists dropping down to his sides. Guilt was _eating_ at his insides, making him feel unsteady on his feet and nauseated. 

“I’m so mad at him for creating a space”—Dean gestured around vaguely, blinking slowly. “A space where I couldn’t tell him about you, or even me. He fucking _died_ and I never got to a place where I felt I could tell him b-because he never told me it was okay to be gay, he never even addressed it in our house. He was always _weird_ around Lee and Charlie. And he had this _picture—”_ Dean pressed his palm against his head, like the picture was burned into the flesh of his hand. “—of what my life was supposed to look like. As soon as I took over the store, he was obsessed with recreating the thing he had with mom. I had to find a nice girl, someone who was nice and fun and chill like mom, who could give him grandkids and run the store with me. S-Someone who had a nice smile and liked classic rock. And now he’s _dead,_ ” Dean choked out harshly, ripping the piece of thread off his pants and tossing it aside, audible tears balancing on his tone like a tightrope. 

“He had the fucking audacity to die and he doesn’t know about you. D-Didn’t get to know about you. I wanted to tell him _so badly_ because I thought if I could tell _him_ , I could tell anybody. A-And I th-thought that I’d finally found the person I could introduce him to. Be-because—” 

Dean paused to catch his breath, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth and gulping hard. Castiel thought he might’ve been beginning to hyperventilate again, but as he took another step forward and his finger twitched, about to reach out, Dean dropped his hand and tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling, tears dragging down his temples and his chin trembling. 

“I couldn’t imagine him not liking you, even though you were a guy,” Dean explained thickly, the words seeming to pour from him like a tumultuous waterfall. “I th-thought that you’d be the one to make him see I could be okay, that I could find someone that was _better_ than that picture of a white picket fence he’d created for me. B-Because I just couldn’t imagine that there would be anyone out there that wouldn’t or _couldn’t_ fall in love with you like I have—"

Castiel had come to learn that Dean repressed almost all of his emotions, but that they poured out like a broken faucet if allowed to come out. At this point, he was used to hearing Dean’s confessions and long-winded, teary explanations of where his pain was founded, but to hear that Dean had fallen in love with him? It came from left field. 

Apparently, it had come out of left field for _both_ of them. 

“I didn’t mean to say that right now,” Dean breathed quickly, his palm sliding down from his forehead to cover his eyes.

The floorboards creaked as Castiel crossed the bedroom, stopping at the end of Dean’s bed with his mouth dropped slightly open. His hands uncurled from fists at his side and he asked slowly, “But did you mean what you said?”

It took a silence that dragged on much too long, but Dean eventually dropped his hand to his lap and he and Castiel stared at each other, eyes locked and connected by a tether of emotion. 

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, his lips barely moving, but his shining eyes darting quickly across Castiel’s face. 

Castiel Grace had _no_ business feeling happy. He didn’t have any right to feel happy in this moment, and yet, a small spark ignited in his stomach where anger and pain used to live. Joy and relief settled in snugly beside the lingering ache of guilt and grief. He bowed his head and stared at a stain on Dean’s knee. “I see.”

“I’m really sorry about everything I did to you, Cas. I’m so sorry that I don’t even got the words…” 

Without looking up, Castiel crossed the distance between them carefully and lowered himself onto the bed, his knee bumping Dean’s. When he did finally look up, Dean looked a bit lost, a bit hurt, a bit confused, and a lot exhausted. But when Castiel leaned forward to hug Dean, he saw a quick reflexive smile and heard a very small inhale near his ear that sounded like a modicum of relief.

"I know what you did and said was because of your past," Castiel murmured into Dean's shoulder. "What...I did and said was because of mine, too. I thought I'd cut you off before you abandoned me first. I'm still learning to let people in, too. I'm also still trying to unlearn what my mother and my foster parents taught me, much like you're trying to unlearn what your father taught you."

Under his arms, Dean's rib cage shuddered and he felt a hot tear drop into his neck before Dean turned his head and rested his cheek on Castiel's shirt.

“For what it's worth, I’m very sorry about your father, Dean,” Castiel whispered.

Dean was quiet, though his heart beat in a pounding drumbeat against Castiel’s chest. With a sniffle, he murmured, "Thank you."

And that was it. Any lingering anger went out like the final glowing-white ember in a pile of ashes. He felt forgiveness and understanding settle comfortably inside his formerly aching chest cavity, and he wasn't upset about it. He didn't feel disappointed in himself for it; he felt confident in his choice—because it was a choice, and one he'd made all on his own. 

He held Dean for a few moments more, rubbing his back in slow, firm strokes, and let the spot where Dean was resting his head grow damp. He had two days of comfort that he owed, after all. However, he soon realized he was staring past the glasses of water on Dean's bedside at an orange medicine bottle tipped on its side, wedged between a flashing alarm clock and the base of Dean’s iron bedside lamp. Pulling away, Castiel waited for Dean to look at him before he gestured to the bottles with his chin. “Are these the pills you’ve been taking daily?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you taken them yet today?”

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Didn't have the energy. Just started takin' 'em a few weeks ago. They make me feel sick."

Extracting himself from the embrace, Castiel leaned over and plucked the bottle into his hand, turning it to read the label. He didn't know what it was, he hadn't taken much medication in his life—his mother had thought he was better off bearing through pain and sickness. Medication wasn't "the will of God." 

But Dean was taking it for a reason, and the bottle said “take with food", so Castiel rose to his feet. 

"Are you leaving?" Dean croaked, swallowing hard, his eyes darting from the bottle to Castiel's face. He looked exhausted. 

"No," Castiel murmured, shaking the bottle, the tiny pills rattling against the plastic. "I'm going to make you something to eat. Rest, Dean. I'll be back."

He didn't wait for a response, and Dean didn't fight him on it. Perhaps the other pill, the one that'd calmed his panic attack, was responsible for Dean's suddenly docile behavior, but as Castiel left, he heard the covers shift behind him and figured he'd finally laid down.

Walking out into the living room and through an open doorway to the kitchen, Castiel looked around. On an opened futon bed in the living room, he noticed what were presumably Sam's suitcases opened on top of a mess of rumpled sheets. Near the head of the bed, he also noticed Hannah's train case and her backpack. Castiel imagined that this couch was the handsome companion to the sofa in the Winchesters’ family music shop. On the other side of a woven rug atop hardwood flooring was a matching armchair with bulky, pilled quilts slung over the back. Like Castiel, Dean had many books and DVDs, though his were all over the place: piled on a wicker coffee table, on the console under the TV, and on the sill under his large bay window. 

He'd never been here before. Again, he found himself thinking that Dean might've exaggerated when he said his place was sketchy. It was smaller than Castiel's condo, but it was homey.

He'd have to check behind the door later for that toilet pipe Dean used as 'security', though.

For a few minutes, he poked around Dean's fridge and cabinets, a bit lost at first as he searched for something to make. Eventually, he paused in his pursuit, his aching heart melting at pictures of Sam and Dean on the fridge, selfies with Charlie, and to his delight, even a ticket from the Tool show they'd seen almost a month and a half ago. 

It was strange that he'd only met Dean less than two months ago—it certainly felt longer.

Mary and John Winchester grinned up at him from polaroids tucked under beer-cap magnets. There was a grocery list and an old and worn-looking note from Sam calling Dean a 'big jerk' with a crooked smiley face. Sam, Dean, and a sandy-haired young man all had their arms around each other and leaned on the window outside the music store; _‘Sammy, D, and Adam - 2009’_ was written in black pen on the bottom. Near the handle of the fridge, a young smiling Dean hugged a round-cheeked young man with long brown hair and big joyous eyes. Under the picture, _'D and Lee - Metallica 2012 - Kansas City'_ was written in block letters with bright metallic Sharpie.

He smiled at them as they smiled up at him, pleased to meet Lee finally, even if just through a captured moment in the past. 

Eventually, he managed to put some food together and returned to Dean's room. He was disappointed to find Dean was not resting, but rather sitting up in bed, his legs now covered by the sheets, and staring across the room at the picture of his family hanging on the wall. Castiel glanced at it on the way in, and figured that the frame had likely been intact before Tuesday.

"Eat," Castiel murmured, sitting on the bed at Dean's knees again, holding out the plate. "I'm sorry, I don't know your kitchen, but I managed to put together a PB&J. It used to be my favorite back when my mother was too lazy to make me dinner. I'd have to fend for myself and… Sorry, too much information."

Dean smiled tightly and accepted half of the sandwich. He stared at it for a moment, hovering it in the air in front of his lips before he took a small bite and chewed slowly. 

Not wanting to pressure him by watching, Castiel got up again and went over to the broken picture. Near the baseboards, he saw shards of glass on the floor. Gingerly, he bent down and picked up the larger chunks, taking them carefully to the trash bin in the bathroom. 

When he returned, the sandwich had three bites missing, but was held lightly in Dean's hands in his lap while Dean's eyes stared unseeingly at the pill bottle now resting upright on the side table. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, again sitting down on the edge of the bed by Dean, his hand reaching up and running down the side of Dean's clammy face. In a whisper, he asked, “What are all of these pills for?”

“Depressed,” Dean whispered wetly, chewing slowly on the small mouthful. With a sharp sniff, he explained, “First they called it _dysthymia_ when my mom died, then _major depressive disorder_ when it didn’t go away. I mean, fuck, what did they expect when my d-dad got sick and Sam had fucked off?"

Castiel's hand stilled and Dean looked up, his red eyes steady on his face. "I don’t know what to call it now, it’s just...who I am. Tried all the pills. Tried them all, feels like. Could never stick to one; they always just made me feel so bad. I’ve been on a new one lately, but I’m shit at takin’ ‘em.”

Fuck. It explained so much. “I mean, I knew you struggled with being gay, but…" Castiel's hand dropped to his lap too, and he struggled before he went on. "I didn’t know. You’re so... You’re always joking, always smiling...” 

“I’m...so sad all the time," Dean breathed brokenly, his lowered eyes visibly layering with a thick glaze of tears. "Helps to laugh, to pretend, to make other people laugh, because it makes everything feel less empty.” Dean wiped his wrist under his nose. “I’m fucking drained all the time, except when I’m with you. And well, sometimes even when I’m with you, though that’s not your fault. But—" he looked up and smiled tightly, "—I don’t call you Sunshine for no reason.”

“You have so much going on. I knew not everything was rosy, but you have your friends, and your store.”

Dean laughed bitterly, wiping his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt. “Nah, man. Kev’s basically the manager of the music store; he does a lot, does most. Kid deserves a freakin’ raise,” Dean said to his sandwich. “I make it in to do the banking once a week, and cover shifts if the staff need time off. Try’ta work a lot of weekends, but I spend— _spent_ most of my time dealing with my dad. It t-took a lot of energy from me. All it took was two hours with my dad and I would wanna sleep for the rest of the day."

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Castiel whispered, his chest aching. He wished he'd known. Maybe he could've helped, or, at the very least, reacted differently to the messages Naomi had found.

"I’ve gone through some shit with my depression. Ended up getting a shitload of meds from my doctor. Tried therapy but hated it. Went twice and then ghosted the psych. Couldn’t talk to my friends about it ‘cause”—Dean looked up and smiled tightly—“everyone thinks I’m happy ‘cept Sam, and I wanted to keep it that way. I hate it when people feel bad for me. Sam kinda figured it out on his own. Damn kid knows me too well. When he first went off to college, he’d call because he missed me, but now he calls to make sure I’ve showered and gotten outta bed and eaten something. It’s fucking humiliating. E-Everything is shit and I hate it."

What was there to say? After mulling a few words in his mouth, Castiel tilted his head and murmured, “Good things do happen, Dean.”

Dean’s chin trembled as he looked down at his fingers. “Not in my experience.” He looked up and it was like every essence of joy was drained from his features, his skin dull and eyes wet. “Lost my brother’s respect. Lost my mom. L-Lost Lee because I’m an asshole. Lost m-my dad—” Dean sucked in a hitched breath, and then murmured, “Now, I lost you too.”

Cas stared at Dean. His hands shook in his lap.

Dean winced. “Did...I lose you, too?”

The lingering uncertainty that’d swirled in his chest calmed and faded, smoked away into the darkness of Dean’s room. Naomi’s voice in his head faded, and he was left with his own voice, one that was quiet, but steady.

“No,” Castiel replied, reaching up and stroking Dean’s cheek with the side of his thumb again. “You haven’t. You haven't lost me."

Very suddenly, Dean broke down into tears again, crying earnestly with his head bowed “G-God,” he choked out, “I’m s-such a dumbass.”

Fuelled with more love than his heart had known it was ready to handle, Castiel pulled Dean’s face up with a finger curled under his chin. “I prefer the word ‘scared’. Less ‘dumb’, less ‘ass’. It doesn’t have the pizzazz of ‘dumbass,’ but it holds more truth.”

“I swear, Cas, I never meant anything in those messages,” Dean said for the millionth time. “I regretted ‘em. I knew I was coping, just j-joking to smokescreen my fuckin’ fears. I-I called Sam a lot of times, afterwards, to tell ‘im I was joking. I can show you my calls, I swear—”

“You don’t have to.”

“How do you know you can trust me, then?”

Castiel dropped his hand between them, linking his fingers with Dean. “I _don’t_ know if I can trust you, but that’s the entire point of trusting. It’s a faith thing, I guess.”

They stared at each other.

Then, Dean nodded, looking sleepy despite the tears and trembling chin. He set down the sandwich onto the plate in his lap. “I don’t think I can eat more, Cas.”

Reaching over, Castiel plucked the pill bottle from the side of bed. He held out a pill and said, “That’s okay. Take this. From now on, you take these everyday. It can't be helping for you to take them irregularly. It's likely why you continue to feel sick. Come." The pills rattled in the plastic when he shook them. "Take one, then sleep."

Dean’s eyes widened and he glanced at the doorway and said quickly, “No, I—”

“I won’t leave. I’ll watch over you,” Castiel murmured, “until Sam gets home, and then maybe we can help him with the funeral plans? What do you think? I-I heard he’s not coping so well, himself, without you.”

Dean’s eyes glazed over with fresh tears, but he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah, sure.”

"I won't leave," Castiel repeated quietly, his low rasp rumbling in his chest beside his aching heart. "Not again."

* * *

Unlike Castiel’s mocking claim to Uriel a couple of days ago, Saturday was not another music festival. Saturday was John Winchester's funeral. 

_Saturday was John Winchester’s funeral._

Dean had done surprisingly well the night following his and Castiel’s reconciliation. He’d sat with Sam, Hannah, and Castiel at the glass kitchen table tucked in a corner between the kitchen and the living room. They’d finalized some decisions about Dean’s father’s funeral, and Castiel had been proud of him for participating, even if Dean’s voice got wobbly once in a while and he had to take long pauses occasionally to gather himself before answering a question or making a decision. 

Sam looked worse for wear too, his under-eyes sunken, and his usually shiny chocolate locks looking a bit limp and worried from shaking fingers carding through them. But he was steadier than Dean, though Castiel wasn’t sure if that was because he wasn’t as close to John as Dean was, or that he had his mental breakdowns behind closed doors. Judging by the way Hannah’s hand was always gripping his tightly, Castiel figured it was the latter.

After his talk with Dean, Castiel still hasn’t been sure if they’d resolved one point of contention: the secrecy of their relationship. As Sam and Hannah arrived at the apartment, there had been a flurry of emotions; Hannah had run into his arms, emotional and full of nervous energy, claiming to be relieved he was there to help, though Sam had approached him slowly, looking a bit stressed and shocked. He mentioned he’d tried to reach him, said he wasn’t sure why but Dean had insisted he wouldn’t talk until he ‘got a hold of Cas’. Castiel murmured some excuse about his phone not working, and Dean corroborated his lie in a croak from the doorway of his room. 

The brother-hug that happened moments after was so heart wrenching that Hannah wasn’t the only one with tears in her eyes. 

It had only been right for him and his cousin to shuffle into the kitchen for a quiet chat and to give the brothers a moment. 

For an hour, Sam went over the decisions he’d made for the service, waiting for his big brother’s approval on every one. He also spent a good chunk of time staring at Castiel and glancing between him and Dean with a confused frown heavy on his brow, but he didn’t overtly question his presence. And Dean didn’t offer any explanation.

It was only later when Hannah insisted they take a break, when they all climbed onto Sam’s futon in front of a TV, did Dean offer any explanation as to Castiel’s presence. Sam sat with Hannah, leaning against the backrests, and when Castiel sat cross legged beside them, did Dean lay on his side, his head in Castiel’s lap. Sam had made a small noise of surprise but didn’t say anything when mid-movie, Dean reached up and took Castiel’s hand, tucking it under his chin and humming when Castiel dared brush his thumb across the grown out stubble on his jaw.

At first Castiel didn’t look away from the TV, too nervous to see Sam’s reaction—or Hannah’s for that matter—but when he did finally look over, Sam was staring at Dean, tears in his eyes but a fond warmth seeped into his features; fond relief, and a tinge of pride twinkling in otherwise exhausted hazel eyes. 

Dean was right; the damn kid did know his older brother too well. Sam knew not to say anything, but there was a tension that drained from his sharp, lanky features. His shoulders, despite the grief and mourning haunting the Winchesters, were a fraction more relaxed.

When the hazel eyes finally looked up from Dean to Castiel, Sam smiled tiredly. A ‘thank you’ in Winchester. 

It wasn’t an open declaration of Dean and Castiel’s relationship, but it may as well have been. When the room grew dark as night fell upon them, the only light coming in from the TV and the street lamp just outside, Dean was asleep on Castiel’s leg and Sam asked if he needed a spare toothbrush for the morning. 

It was something—more than something; it was a lot. Because Castiel _did_ accept the new spare toothbrush, he did sleep over, and the next morning when Sam and Hannah had breakfast ready, Dean ate his with Castiel on the couch and rested his head on his shoulder when half a piece of toast exhausted him. Right in front of Sam, right out in the open.

By the time Saturday morning rolled around, Castiel had only left Dean’s apartment once, and it was to get fresh clothing; a suit that was a bit ill-fitting, a dark blue tie because he didn’t own a black one. He’d wanted to wear a black leather coat he’d bought in his early 20’s, but that thing didn’t fit him anymore and would probably look better on Dean anyway. He took it with him to offer as a gift, and wore a beige, baggy trenchcoat he’d had hanging in the front closet for years.

It was the end of October, so they rode to the service in the Impala with the windows up to cut the chill in the air. Although, the hand Dean wasn’t gripping around the steering wheel shook anyway as he held it at his mouth, chewing at his nails compulsively. It wasn’t lost on Castiel how Sam kept a watchful eye on his big brother, and didn’t ask questions harder than ‘can I turn some music on’ or ‘I think we make a left here?’.

The service itself was nice enough, and they momentarily lost Sam and Hannah as relatives swarmed him to give their condolences and hugs that the tall Winchester looked uncomfortable with. A few people tried to speak to Dean, but he just kept his dark sunglasses on and grunted, ‘Thanks’ before ducking away with his head lowered, almost wincing at people’s touch. 

Everyone’s touches, except for Castiel’s. He gripped onto his hand hard, seemingly too deep in grief to give a shit about appearances. 

To his own surprise, Castiel recognized a few faces. Charlie and Kevin sat behind them, perhaps knowing Dean well enough to not bother him except to give his shoulders a squeeze as they took their seats. There was woman named Tara that Dean had shown him a picture of once, an old friend of his dad’s. She spoke quietly with a shorter, gruff looking man who wore a trucker hat and vest to a funeral, and hugged a mother-daughter pair who smiled tightly, their eyes tipped down at the corners in grief.

A kind, soft-spoken black woman stopped by to bend down in front of Dean and whisper a few words in his ear. Dean didn’t say anything to her in return, but his nose got red and his lips trembled for a moment after she spoke to him and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. Unperturbed by Dean’s silence, she moved to her seat beside Charlie just one pew back. When Castiel tilted his head and surveyed Dean, Dean did utter a few words in a wobbly tone, grunting behind his hand as he used his wrist to wipe his nose; “Missouri Moseley; Dad’s old friend. Used to look after me.”

With a slow nod, Castiel looked over at Missouri, who was watching him already, and they exchanged soft smiles. She winked and folded her hands in her lap, staring up at the picture of John Winchester propped up beside the open-casket as she murmured to Charlie beside her.

Eric Clapton’s _Tears in Heaven’_ played through the small room in the funeral home as the service began, and Castiel’s fingers lost all feeling as Dean squeezed hard through the entire song. Every instinct in him wanted to pull his arm around him and tug him closer, but didn’t want to push Dean. Not today.

Sam, a woman named Ellen Harvelle (the mother from the mother-daughter pair earlier), Bobby Singer (the man in the hat), and a minister spoke at the podium up front, all giving eulogies and short speeches about John Winchester; he was a good father, a dedicated husband, a loyal friend, and now, an angel in Heaven. Dean didn’t make a speech, to Castiel’s surprise, though it was likely for the best. He knew Dean wouldn’t sugar-coat like the others did, he wouldn’t lie about the father who made him feel undeserving of the seat beside his hospital bed, and his words would tremble with more anger than sadness. 

And Dean was breathing hard through his nose, the skin peeking under the bottom edge of his glasses red and patchy: He could hardly breathe, let alone make any kind of memorial speech.

It was only when Castiel reached over with his other hand and ran his thumb over Dean’s wrist that the clenching of Dean’s jaw slackened and he released the smallest hitched breath that preceded two tears that rolled out from under the sunglasses. 

The service was over quicker than he could’ve initially imagined, and suddenly people were lined up for one last viewing, a final goodbye before the burial, and Castiel found himself prying his fingers from Dean’s grip when Sam glanced over at Dean from the line expectantly.

“I can’t do it,” Dean breathed, just loud enough for Castiel to hear, and he heard the panic in his voice. “I c-can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Let’s step outside, then,” Castiel murmured, getting to his feet and gesturing to the side of the room where they could make their escape. “You don’t have to. If...If you’re sure.”

Dean was staring up at the line of mourners standing near the head of the coffin as they said their farewells. 

“Dean?”

“I don’t know if I’m sure,” Dean whispered faintly, his face draining. “I-I don’t know. I—Cas—Cas, _get me out of here._ ”

Turning to shield Dean from Sam, and Charlie, and Kevin, and _everyone’_ s watchful stares, he put his hand on Dean’s lower back as they both swept out, Dean’s boots clapping over the dark-stained hardwood floor and Castiel’s trenchcoat flapping out behind him. Dean pushed past the double doors leading to the stone steps outside the memorial building, and Castiel followed, but felt his heart drop abruptly at the sight of Naomi sitting in the back of the pews, flanked by Uriel. 

What the _fuck_ was she doing here?

His heart ached with anger, but he shoved the feeling away—Dean needed him more. 

The doors shut behind him with a thud and Castiel swept down the stairs to catch up to Dean, who was leaning on a stonewall near the sidewalk.

“I can’t do it,” Dean choked out, running his hand over his mouth, his fingers trembling. “I can’t l-look at his face. W-Why would I want to see h...his face? He’s all dead, and he’s _not_ coming back, and I can’t fu-fucking—” A sharp breath. “I can’t do it. Maybe Sam needs to l-look at his face because he hardly fucking saw it the last few years, but I was _there—_ ” Dean poked himself hard in the chest, the leather of his jacket creaking under the pressure. More tears dragged down his face, though his tone was oddly steady, laced with frustration and pain. “I was there, by his fucking bed for _years. Years,_ Cas. I don’t n-need to see his dead face because I watched him die, okay? It took years, but I watched m-my dad drain away and I don’t _need_ to see his f-face. I’ve—I’ve _seen_ it. I—”

Castiel pulled Dean into his arms before his knees could give out, and Dean hugged him back so fiercely he was certain he might break something. The trenchcoat strained across his back as Dean’s fists curled into the material and squeezed. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Castiel rasped into Dean’s jacket, his hand pressed firmly to Dean’s back, fingers spread. “You already did everything you needed to do. You did your best.”

“I did,” Dean exhaled in a hitched, jerking breath. 

“You were a good son, Dean.”

Dean’s sunglasses clattered to the ground behind Castiel’s shoes as Dean tilted his head down and buried his face into Castiel’s neck, crying earnestly, his breath hot as he wept into the stiff material of the beige coat.

They didn’t move for minutes, and the street was quiet—no cars drove by, no leaves fluttered to the ground from the red and orange trees, and no one exited the building behind them—as if the world wanted to give Dean a moment of grief, too.

Castiel’s hands stroked at his back and his arms squeezed in reassurance when Dean eventually settled down, going quiet and simply breathing, albeit shakily. When he pulled away, his face was a mess of tears and patchy redness whorled under his skin across his cheeks, but Dean’s eyes were clear and green, brighter than they’d been in a few days. His lips trembled but then smiled anyway, his wobbly hands reaching up to straighten Castiel’s collar.

“I...uh…” Dean sniffled hard and wiped a tear off his jaw with the back of his hand, though his eyes were locked on Castiel’s. “I love you, you know that?”

With everything going on, Castiel hadn’t had time to process the _first_ confession of love, but this one hit him like a truck and he blinked for a few moments, stunned. Then, after realizing humans usually responded to amazing, extraordinary, mind-blowing, heart-swelling declarations like that, he croaked, “I know that.”

No. Bad human. Try again. 

“I love you,” Castiel replied quickly, sucking in an audibly rough breath. “I love you, too. Of course I do.”

Dean’s teeth peeked through his dry lips as he smiled and he gestured out beside the funeral home vaguely. “I know I haven’t introduced you to a lot of people that are important to me, but I’m gonna start today, okay? Can I introduce you to someone really important to me?” 

“Of course,” Castiel replied as Dean went ahead and took his hand, leading him out to the cemetery beside the red-brick building. 

Their feet crunched over dried leaves and the dirt path cutting through gravestones. Unsure where he was being led, or to whom, Castiel followed anyway, his hand in Dean’s warm, clammy one. But eventually, they stopped in front of a lovely, immaculate gravemarker made of white marble streaked in hues of gold and green.

_MARY WINCHESTER_

_December 5, 1954 – November 2, 1981_

_In Loving Memory_

“Oh,” Castiel breathed to himself, because Dean was staring down at his mother’s resting place, and glancing beside it to the freshly dug plot where they’d be lowering his father into in mere minutes.

“Hey, Mom,” Dean said, waving a little. From a framed picture embedded into the grave stone, Mary smiled up at him between wavy blonde locks blown into her face by a soft breeze frozen in time. 

“Ma, this is Cas,” Dean went on, gesturing with his thumb to Castiel, who stood beside him, his fingers curled up to press against Dean’s knuckles reassuringly. “He’s pretty hot, huh?”

“Dean,” Castiel chuckled airily, glancing up at the sky awkwardly, like Mary Winchester was there winking at him and making him blush. “ _Please._ ”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dean said to his mother. “He’s devastatingly handsome and he freakin’ knows it. Um...yeah, so, mom...turns out I’m pretty gay.”

Castiel’s smile drifted off his lips as Dean’s tone changed; it was serious, the lighthearted chuckle absent from his confession.

“Not ‘turns out’, actually. Always been gay; I hope you’re okay with it. Well...no. I know you woulda been okay with it. I-I don’t know why I didn’t have the balls to tell you when you were around, I was just scared I guess. D-Don’t know if Dad feels the same, if he’s actually up there with you, but...fuck it. Fuck him. Tell him I’m gay, I don’t care,” Dean shrugged, his eyes staring down longingly at the tombstone. “I just wanted you to know, that’s all. Never told you and honestly, if I never told anyone ever, I’d want _you_ to know. You’re the only person who… I just love you, and I miss you, and you’d better like Cas because he’s not going anywhere.”

Mary didn’t answer, but she kept smiling up at them from the picture, and that seemed to be enough for Dean, because he huffed in laughter and waved at her gravestone. “Yeah, yeah,” he grunted. “Knew you’d be cool with it.”

People were coming out from the building behind them, Castiel could hear the conversations from afar. He glanced back, watching the people congregate on the steps and begin to walk over. Sam and a few others were palm-bearers, leading the crowd towards them. 

“I think your mother likes me,” Castiel murmured into Dean’s ear, knocking their elbows together.

“I think so too,” Dean agreed, finally raising his head and turning his face to stare at Castiel, green eyes twinkling. “You suck up.”

“I’m devastatingly handsome, I won’t take that kind of sass from you, Winchester.”

Dean laughed, but his eyes quickly glanced back, and the sparkle extinguished quickly, his lips fading into a pursed grimace. “They’re coming.”

“I’ll be here. Right here,” Castiel reassured firmly, stepping away from Dean and releasing their hands. It had been one thing to intertwine fingers between them when they’d been hidden in the pews, but out in the open, in front of everyone—

Dean took his hand again, reclaiming his fingers. “I’ll need that,” he said, shaking their interlocked hands. “I...want it."

Castiel smiled gently in response, but they went quiet and looked away from each other as the other funeral attendees poured around them, forming a semi-circle of grief around John's grave. Dean was staring forward as the minister took their place near the new tombstone, and ignoring several sets of eyes that watched him carefully. Castiel quickly glanced around and noticed many new faces.

The burial was quick, like the service had been, and while there were more audible sniffles and Sam's chin didn't stop trembling, Dean seemed to be holding himself together a bit more this time around. He let Sam put an arm around him and his hands shook while he set a rose on his father's dark wood casket, but the tears were minimal. 

When the burial was done, the crowd broke into hugs and hushed chatter, spreading across the cemetery and catching up on the sidewalks. Sam wandered off, his head low and wrist running under his nose—when he stopped under a tree and leaned on it, Hannah and Charlie rushed off to his side. Kevin joined them after giving Dean a squeeze above his elbow.

Missouri, the woman from inside the service, John's old friend, came right up to Castiel and Dean as he stared into his father’s grave with redness flushed across his face.

"I haven't seen Bobby in quite some time. Ellen and her girl neither," Missouri said softly, glancing between them and smiling softly. "I know Bobby and Ellen will be touting your father's greatest hits. I know you both used to love those stories, Dean. Would you like to come?"

Dean shuffled his feet and his throat bobbed. While Dean licked his lips to buy time, Castiel stepped up and murmured, “Perhaps. We’ll give it some thought. I think he needs a moment.”

"You do that.” Missouri nodded, patting Castiel on the arm as she began to walk away. “John’s favourite diner, just on that dirt road off Leslie St, if y’all feel like joining.”

A few people hovered, looking as if they wanted to speak to Dean, likely to offer condolences, but Missouri shook her head and held out her arm, shepherding them off. 

“Thanks,” Dean grunted, tugging his hands out of his pockets to run over his lips. “Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if wanted… Didn’t…” 

“It’s all right, Dean.”

They stood in silence again, and thankfully, only a couple people were ballsy enough to bother Dean in his mournful contemplation of his father’s grave; one man named Garth was monstrously tall like a gangly werewolf, and hugged like one, and another man named Rufus who was gruff, but kept the condolences short and sweet with a rough pat on the arm and a “Good man, your daddy was. Good man.”

As he walked away to do the same to Sam, Castiel spotted Naomi and Uriel standing with Kevin, Charlie, and another man he didn’t—

“I can’t believe she’s here,” Castiel said quietly, shaking his head, anger twinging in his chest. “I—”

“I think she’s here with Uriel,” Dean piped up, staring at his parent’s tombstones. “Heard Hannah on the phone the other night invitin’ ‘em. Honestly, Cas, don’t be angry with her if it’s on my behalf. I don’t care if Naomi is here, I just don’t got the energy to care. I think they all became bonded and shit at Uriel’s comedy thing—” Dean sighed, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder at them. “I—oh, _fuck._ ”

Dean looked away from the crowd quickly, his eyes wide as he stared down at Castiel’s tie. “Oh fuck.”

Castiel looked over at the crowd, but missed the point of Dean’s sudden alarm completely. Squinting at the crowd, Castiel asked, “What?”

Dean’s hands were shaking again when they slid back into his pocket, and he blinked hard, a fresh wave of tears making his eyes shine. “I-I… _Lee_ is here. Fuck, what do I—What do I do?”

 _Oh._ Castiel leaned to the side again to watch the man he hadn’t recognized earlier as the same young man who’d been hugging Dean in that picture on the fridge. “Is he the man wearing the maroon blazer and blue jeans?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go over,” Castiel said firmly, pressing at the leather above Dean’s elbow, but Dean’s arm jerked away.

With his eyes wide, Dean whispered, “I can’t, Cas. I just—I _stopped_ talking to him. I ghosted the dude, my best damn friend. He probably _hates_ me.”

“He’s at your father’s funeral,” Castiel said softly, bowing his knees a bit to catch Dean’s eyes when the green orbs lowered and darked between eyelashes that winced. “He’s here to pay his respects, and—” Castiel turned Dean with two firm hands on his shoulders and pointed. “Look, he doesn’t look angry.”

It was true. Lee was smiling at Sam crookedly—much like Dean did some times—and was patting at his arm. Whatever he’d said was making Sam smile too, so he couldn’t be that bad.

Dean stared at Lee, a myriad of emotions rippling across his face, but eventually, his features remained pinched and he rasped, “What do I say?”

Castiel rubbed his hands down Dean’s arms and whispered near his ear, “You said ‘hello’, and then you give him a hug—”

“No, Cas, I—”

“And then you introduce me,” Castiel finished, kissing Dean’s short hair behind his ear before he gave him a gentle push with a hand on his lower back. 

By some miracle, Dean’s feet moved, one in front of the other, and by the time they were within six feet, Lee’s head turned and his face flew through a rolodex of emotions before his lips spread into a beaming smile. 

“Dean?” Lee greeted, stepping away from the group of people, who all watched the interaction with a collectively held breath. 

Without another word, Lee closed the distance between them and threw his arms around Dean. 

“Missed you, brother,” Lee rasped into Dean’s shoulder, gripping the black leather in his big hands. 

“Missed you, too,” Dean choked out. Castiel could only see his back, but Dean released a few shuddered breaths that drained all tightness from his shoulders and brought pleased smiles to Sam and Charlie’s faces. 

“I’m so...” Dean hesitated. “I’m so sor—”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Lee interrupted, pulling away but holding onto Dean at an arm’s length, staring at him fondly. “None of that, man. None of that. It’s so good to see you. I…” His smile faded a bit, his tanned, round cheeks drooping. “I’m sorry ‘bout your old man. Always liked that crusty sonuvabitch.”

Castiel’s heart dropped a bit in shock, but raised back up when Dean’s genuine, throaty laughter sounded and he half turned, holding his hand out to Castiel. 

With hesitation, Castiel looked down at the open palm and licked at his lips, unsure what to do. For a moment suspended in time, he was back to square one, anxiety coiling slowly up his middle like the undead, clawing back up towards his heart, uncertainty reigniting like an white ember flaring orange—

Dean gave his hand a shake and Castiel stepped off the diving board, right into the deep end when he took Dean’s hand and stepped forward. 

“Lee, I want you to meet Cas,” Dean said with a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the skin around them. “My, uh, my boyfriend.”

Sam’s jaw dropped over Lee’s shoulder and Charlie faux-fainted into his arms, hand-to-forehead and all, while Hannah looked like a toddler who realised Christmas had come early. Kevin just looked confused, scowling at Sam and mouthing, “Dean is _gay?_ ”

Lee, like Hannah, stared between Dean and Castiel with the air of someone who’d just won the lottery and with a glimmer in his eye like he had glitter and rainbows for irises. “No way, dude. Well, damn, Castiel—” Lee stuck out his hand. “—good to meet you, brother.”

Feeling a bit high, his feet barely touching the ground like he’d sprouted wings suddenly, Castiel shook the extended hand, too overjoyed to even feel the firm shake. 

“I’ve heard much about you,” Castiel said, but added when Lee seemed to wince, “Good things, I promise.”

Dean suddenly looked bashful, dropping his eyes to the ground. “Yeah, I, uh—”

“I’m so sorry!” a voice cried out from afar. 

Everyone turned to watch a sandy-haired young man slow from a frantic run through the cemetery and spread-out group of funeral goers, his thin locks all wonky and his tie on backwards. “Fuckin’ _so_ sorry I’m late. My flight was delayed, so delayed—” 

As he skidded to a skip, the young man’s hazel eyes widened at the gravesite and his lips trembled. “I missed it. I-I missed it. He’s—”

Sam seemed to jerk out of his content observation of Dean and Lee’s reunion, his face falling. “Adam?”

“Adam,” Dean breathed, before he and Sam pushed through the group towards the newcomer.

Melding into their small group of friends, Castiel and Lee stepped back to watch the three Winchester brothers throw their arms around each other. 

“That’s Dean and Sam’s half-brother,” Charlie whispered into Castiel’s ear, holding his arm in her hands. “He—”

“I know about Adam,” Castiel murmured, his heart sinking as the Winchester’s curled their heads in close together and Adam audibly wept, distraught over missing his father’s funeral. 

“Come on, bud,” Dean urged, his own tone wobbly and wet as he tugged his brother towards the grave. “Come say goodbye.”

Not needing another hint, Charlie tugged Castiel away and the band of friends moved away to leave the three orphan brothers with their parents, to give the family their space to mourn, to say farewell.

“This blows,” Charlie said, her arm linking with Castiel’s as they migrated off to the sidewalk. “It’s like it happened to the least deserving people out there, y’know? Like, Sam and Dean and Adam didn’t deserve not to have parents—”

“No one deserves not to have parents,” Uriel’s smooth tone sounded from behind them as he and Naomi joined their gathering on the concrete, shielded from the high sun by the shade of an orange and red canopy of trees.

Castiel turned and smiled at Uriel sadly, though he felt his own face harden as his eyes dropped to Naomi’s rightfully-ashamed face. 

“What’re you doing here?” Castiel demanded from her.

Hannah stepped between them and said quietly, “I invited her. We’re all friends now, Castiel. I wanted Sam to have his friends here.”

 _Do friends steal from each other?_ Castiel thought bitterly, but he merely scowled and looked away, intending to ignore his former friend.

“Can I have a word with you?” Naomi asked, flicking her bangs from her face.

He could feel Hannah’s gaze burning into his face, and everyone else was watching silently, waiting for a bomb to go off, even if they didn’t have a clue as to what it was, or what it might be about. 

“Fine,” Castiel said through his teeth, sweeping away, the trenchcoat flapping behind him, letting a cool breeze into the layers of his suit. 

When they were far enough, he turned on his heel, sickeningly pleased how Naomi looked a bit like she hadn’t slept in days, the bags under her eyes dark even through makeup, and her mouth etched into a twisted, pursed frown. 

“What?” Castiel demanded. “Did you find _anything else_? Did you read Charlie’s diary? Uncover a treasure chest in Lee’s backyard with all the horrible things Dean might’ve written about me? Perhaps Kevin has a napkin or a receipt you picked from his pocket that Dean gave him, ‘I think Castiel is an ugly swamp monster, Kev’ it says, ‘a big gay tentacled’—”

“I deserve this,” Naomi admitted with a wince. “I know I do.”

“You do,” Castiel retorted bluntly, shoving his hands into his pockets roughly. “You deserve worse. I should’ve kicked you out of that memorial service in front of everyone. Outed you for—”

“Being a bitch,” Naomi supplied with a sharp nod. “And you would’ve been right.”

Oh, if she thought she was helping, he had news for her. “This self-aware, self-deprecating bullshit is not working on me,” Castiel growled, stepping towards her and glaring. He pointed at her. “Those days are over. I do not feel sorry for you. You manipulated me, you—”

“Yes.” Naomi nodded again, her hands turning in front of her stomach, fiddling with an obnoxiously large crystal ring around her finger. “Yes, absolutely. I lied and manipulated the truth. I knew there was a chance those messages were too dated to matter, and likely had some kind of context. A-And I knew it was wrong to take Sam’s phone. I waited until he was drunk enough not to notice, and I stole the phone. I removed the password I’d seen him use all night because I wanted to find something, anything to prove Dean didn’t love you.”

Castiel glared.

Naomi swallowed and added hoarsely, “I wanted to prove he didn’t love you like I do.”

A small breeze blew between them, rustling Castiel’s coat and blowing a lock of hair into Naomi’s face. Her hands dropped to her purse and she wrung the strap between her fists. 

A weird, dull ache shuddered somewhere near his heart and Castiel dropped his gaze to the ground. “I am gay, Naomi. I...can’t love you like that. We can never—”

“I know,” Naomi admitted, licking at her lips and raising a hand to tuck hair behind her ear. Raising her round blue eyes, she winced. “I know that. I knew that. I...know. It’s just—” He watched her take a heavy breath, her shoulders raising, before they dropped like weights had rolled off of them and thudded to the ground. 

“I’m just very alone,” she breathed wetly, her eyes shining. And he knew that she was being sincere—even in her darkest moments, Naomi did _not_ cry. He felt a twinge of sympathy as she visibly tried to regroup, swallowing repeatedly and blinking hard, rolling her eyes a bit to clear them of tears. “You’ll all I have. You’re—You—I only have _you_.” 

She gestured at him, flushing red. It wasn’t a cute look, she wasn’t a good crier, but it was the most honesty he’d probably gotten from her in years. 

“You have other people,” Castiel said slowly, wracking his brain for other friends Naomi had aside from himself and drawing a very, very quick blank. “You have…”

Naomi tilted her head and smiled sadly. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Castiel pressed his lips together and grimaced, but realised she was right. 

With a visible surge of shaky confidence, Naomi gestured over her shoulder with a flap of her hand. “ _But_ ,” she said pointedly, “Hannah called me here, and your friend—” She paused, adding begrudgingly, “— _My_ friend now, as well, I suppose— _Uriel_ has tolerated me. I...am making friends, slowly. I don’t know why they want me in their presence, but they do.” 

Castiel was unsure where she was going with this, but then;

“I am beginning to understand that I was clinging to you because you’re all I have, and I was holding out hope that the only person who seemed to like me might actually _love_ me in return some day. And...that’s wrong.”

Castiel was tempted to look around for a camera crew, or test Naomi with silver just in case she was a shapeshifter, or see if she was an android parading around as the cold, uncaring woman he’d called a friend for so long. He narrowed his eyes, but remained quiet. 

“ _I_ was wrong,” Naomi said as if it physically hurt her to admit it. “I understand you do not want to be my friend, but I do love you, and I will miss you terribly. I hope one day we can make amends.”

He could see people watching them over her shoulder, and while he was still furious with her, and wasn’t remotely close to forgiveness, he was willing to eventually allow the chance to open the doors to the idea.

“I’m still angry with you,” Castiel admitted, his jaw clenching and his teeth grinding together. He took his time staring at her before he grunted, “But thank you for coming for Sam, _if_ you truly came for him.”

Naomi paused, shrugging one shoulder. “Well...I did. Partially. He was very kind to me at the bar the other night. I’ve never seen someone so enthused to tell me about gluten-free pretzels in my life. It was admittedly endearing.”

“And then you stole his phone,” Castiel reminded her with a scowl.

Her cheeks puffed out in embarrassment. “Yes. I stole his phone.”

“I know the concept will be foreign to you, but friends are honest with each other,” Castiel mocked, pointing over her shoulder at Sam as the Winchester brothers joined their friends on the sidewalk, their cheeks wet but smiles on their faces and their arms around their youngest brother. “You should tell Sam you took his phone. You do that, and I’ll consider having breakfast with you again some day.”

Maybe she missed the point, or the growl in his tone, or the fact that he hadn’t entirely forgiven her, but Naomi’s lips parted into a smile and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Thank you,” she breathed, sniffling. “I will do that. I will.”

He wanted to berate her more, to remind her how she’d hurt him, and to demand she apologized to Dean too, because her shenanigans had hurt him. But the fire was out in his chest and Castiel decided he was done with this chapter. He wanted to be done with pain, and fear, and anger. He had Dean to support, his own happiness to tend to, and for the first time, he had some kind of direction, some sort of future to look forward to. Being angry with her forever locked him to the past and, frankly, he was done with doubting everything. 

He swept past her and rejoined the group, pleased beyond recognition when Dean raised his arm, creating a perfect crevice for Castiel to slide under. 

“Hey,” Dean greeted, looking beautiful as always, even with red cheeks and pale skin and the dull shine of freshly wiped tears on his cheeks. “We’re all thinkin’ of hitting up that diner Missouri was talking about. You want to?”

“I’ll go wherever you go,” Castiel replied easily, nodding. 

“Groooooooooss,” Charlie booed, cupping her hands around her mouth. “You sappy gays.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean retorted quickly, flashing Charlie a crooked smile. 

Everyone laughed, which may have been odd in the shade of a tree rooted deeply in a cemetery, only a dozen or so tombstones away from where Dean’s parents lay to rest eternally, but the lightness seemed to be welcomed by the group. Even Adam, who had wept brokenly into his brothers’ arms, smiled shakily.

It didn’t escape Castiel’s notice that no one acted oddly at Dean’s (second) coming out, and apparently, it didn’t escape Dean’s notice either. Castiel watched Dean glance around, like he was waiting for a blow, but when none came, a lingering glimmer twinkled behind his green eyes. 

“Whose cars are we taking?” Kevin asked, tugging keys from his pocket and jingling them. “I only have room for me. My piece of junk car is filled with broken down boxes from the store, didn’t get a chance to drop ‘em off in the recycling bin before I had to head over here.”

“I took a cab,” Lee said with a shrug, while Adam nodded as well, grunting, “Same.”

“Walked,” Charlie sighed. “My place is around the block.”

“Naomi!” Hannah cried, waving her hand, drawing everyone’s attention to the woman still standing far from the group, likely stewing in her own shame, if Castiel had anything to do with it. “You coming to grab a bite?”

Naomi turned on the spot and gaped, her eyes flickering to Castiel.

With a scowl, Castiel said bluntly, “She’s coming.”

“She’s got a car,” Uriel piped in, grinning mischievously. “A fancy one, too.”

“I can drive,” Naomi agreed, coming to a stop outside their group, tugging keys from her purse hesitantly. 

“Dibs on the Impala!” Charlie yelped, jumping into a jog towards the shining beauty of a muscle car parked out front of the memorial home. 

Lee groaned fondly, arching his back and sliding his hands in his pockets. “Aw, man. The Impala, it’s been a minute since I rode in that sweet girl.”

“Could you say that anymore creepy?” Adam asked roughly, though his eyes wrinkled in the corners as he grinned a bit. Glancing around he added, “Also dibs on the Impala. I didn’t fly here to miss my dad’s funeral _and_ a ride in the Impala.”

“It’s all you, kid,” Dean piped in, after watching silently, a small smile rested comfortably on his lips now. As he wrestled his keys out of his jean pockets, he nodded at Sam. “Take Hannah with you and be careful when you drive. I don’t want a scratch on my baby, and no changing the radio presets.”

“You sure you don’t wanna drive?” Sam asked, perplexed as he caught the keys Dean threw at him. “Really?”

“Nah,” Dean said with a shake of his head. “I’m tired today. I just wanna sit until someone can feed me a decent bacon cheeseburger.”

Sam smiled. “Dad’s favourite.”

“You gonna have one too?”

“‘Course. Just this time.”

“Don’t think they have gluten-free buns at that shady diner, there, Sam.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam slid his arm around Hannah’s shoulders and steered her away towards the car. “I think I’ll manage, jerk.”

“Catch you later, bitch,” Dean called after his brother. And then with a longing, pained glance back at the fresh dirt being patted down by the service staff atop John Winchester’s grave, Dean said, “Naomi, you know the diner off of Leslie?”

“No,” she admitted, shooting Uriel a glare when the man grinned at her, knowing perfectly well she didn’t know shit about some hole-in-the-wall diner. “But I have GPS, I can find it. Come, I’m just parked over here.”

As she led them down the sidewalk, down the street along a row of cars parked by the curb, Dean said, “Fair warning, you don't want me in the back. I get car sick, it’s why I’m always the driver.” 

Bristling somewhat at the idea of Naomi and Dean sitting in the front seat, of having Dean sit beside someone who had indirectly done nothing but add more pain atop his plate already piled too high in shit, Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but Naomi beat him to it.

“You can sit up front in my car, Dean.” Turning around and walking backwards, Naomi held out her keys. “Castiel can drive.”

He nearly tripped over his own feet, stunned. After a moment where he failed to make words happen, Castiel asked, “You...want me to drive your Mercedes? You never let anyone drive your Mercedes.” 

Still, he accepted the keys slowly and stared down at them.

When he looked back up, Naomi shrugged. “Sometimes you have to let old habits die.”

Castiel held her gaze, a meaningful look passing between them, before she turned around and continued walking forward. “And,” she went on, “I imagine you’d rather sit with your boyfriend.”

Uriel chuckled beside him. With a spark of delight in his chest, Castiel smirked at Uriel and said to Naomi, “And I imagine you’d rather sit with yours, too.”

Chaos erupted at that as Dean chuckled, and Naomi tripped on the curb beside her car, spinning around and exclaiming shrilly, “Him?” She pointed at Uriel. “Absolutely not!”

Dean slipped away to stand by the passenger side door, while Uriel did the same and pressed a hand to his chest, looking offended, “Girl, as if?! Wouldn’t stick my dick in you either, it’d freeze and fall off.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he swept around the front of the car, feeling entirely not ready to take another long car ride of Naomi and Uriel bickering. It would be like the trip to the music festival, though at least this time they’d have air conditioning. 

Uriel and Naomi slid into the backseat, arguing like a married couple, but Castiel paused, staring at Dean over the hood of the car. 

“Are you ready to go?” Castiel asked softly.

Dean drummed his fingers across the top of the Mercedes and nodded, his lips quirked up into a smile and his eyes twinkling. 

“I’ll go wherever you go, Sunshine.”

Castiel winked and they nodded at each other, sliding into the car. With his chest buzzing contently, with Dean at his side, with his friends in the backseat, and with more friends waiting for them at the end of their drive, Castiel felt very at peace. Loneliness felt like a foreign concept suddenly, and doubts that plagued him for decades faded away and blew out the open window like they’d never been there at all. He had much to look forward to, good things and hurdles alike, but for the first time, he felt like he had purpose, he had love, companionship, and a sense of himself; thoughts that were his, aspirations and convictions that were his, and love that was all his to discover. 

Finally, he had something of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all! You made it to the end of the chapter! Thanks for jumping on this journey with me.
> 
> I am a starving fanfic writer who can only be fed with quality comments of people telling me which part of this chapter was their favourite so...FEED ME. I AM SO HUNGRY.
> 
> PLEASE GO CHECK OUT THE EPILOGUE...;)


	12. #1 Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD Y'ALL I'D WRITE AN EPILOGUE.
> 
> Music: [#1 Crush - Garbage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PX7LLua5NCM)

_One Year Later_

“Stop selling t-shirts,” Naomi demanded, clapping her hands in between each word, leaning over the table separating her from Castiel, who was accepting change from a festival goer.

“Three dollars is your change,” Castiel grunted at the young man he’d sold a Taylor Swift t-shirt to, passing the merchandise over to him and glancing at Naomi with a scowl when the patron shuffled off. “I’m coming, Naomi. You’re being quite bothersome, I told you I’m almost done—”

“Get oooout. Go away,” Kevin groaned, letting his head loll onto the back of his chair. “I told you; I got this. Go with Naomi before I call security.”

“I’m supposed to stay here until Alfie comes to relieve me,” Castiel insisted, though he bent down to grab his metal water bottle anyway, shimming between the tables to join Naomi in the moving horde of music festival attendees in all their sweating, tye-dye glory. 

“I got this,” Kevin repeated, waving his hand out to the crowd of people. “No one’s paying attention to us anyway; BTS just got on stage, so the entire world is migrating to the KPOP field. There’s gonna be a lull here.”

“Bossy ever since he got a raise and a fancy new title,” Naomi pointed out with a smirk, adjusting her sunglasses on her nose.

“Bossy?” Kevin said shrilly, poking himself in the chest before he flailed his finger at Naomi. “Me? Uh, hello, pot, kettle, _hello?!”_

Naomi began raising her middle finger, her acrylic nails flashing in the sun like tiny little knives.

“Okay,” Castiel interrupted, waving Naomi towards the rock fields. “Let’s go before someone gets stabbed in the eye with one of those.”

“Fine,” Naomi snapped, waving at Kevin. “Goodbye, Assistant to the Manager Tran.”

“Hey! That’s _assistant manager_ to you, Princess!”

Castiel and Naomi melded into the crowd, his elbow on her shoulder. She glanced back and said coolly, “If he wasn’t so adorable, I’d toss him off a cliff, that brat.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said,” Castiel commented dryly, pulling his aviators off his head to balance on his nose. “What’s the rush to get to the show? You don’t even _like_ The Prodigy.”

Naomi cleared her throat, nudging him through two vendor stands, emerging onto the rock field. “Well, Garbage is on afterwards and I don’t want you to miss the first song.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at her. “Your boyfriend is here, isn’t he?”

As they weaved through the crowd, Naomi pressed her hand to her chest and made an offended noise in her throat. “Excuse me? I can’t just want to do a good deed for a friend?” Although she paused, and added, “But yes, Fergus is around here somewhere.”

 _Busted,_ Castiel thought, and while he was tempted to mock Naomi for the millionth time for dating someone who preferred to be called ‘Crowley’, he shut his trap and let her lead him to their friends. 

“Heeeey!” Charlie exclaimed, waving her arms, the rainbow pom-poms attached to her wrists glittering madly in the air above Uriel’s head. “Dean! Cas is here!”

“Cas is here?!” Uriel said, his deep voice cracking as he tried to sound shrill, his hands waving around like a fangirl. “Quick, do I look good? Is my hair alright?”

“Your hair always looks alright, stunner,” Lee teased, leaning his elbow on Uriel’s shoulder and earning himself a high-five.

Sam grinned from between Hannah’s thighs that pillowed his head. With her on his shoulders, they were ten feet tall combined, and the people behind them who couldn’t see the stage looked grumpy.

“Cuz, you _just_ made it!” Hannah cried out, pointing at the stage. “Look, it’s Shirley Manson!”

In front of Sam, Dean turned and grinned at Castiel, wiggling his hips. “Ready to dance, Sunshine?”

Greeting him with arms around his ribs and a kiss, Castiel nodded and said against Dean’s lips, “With you? Yes.”

Something behind Dean’s eyes flared like a firework and he grinned. “That’s the answer I’m looking for.”

The crowd broke into a booming chorus of cheers as the first slow twangs of ‘ _#1 Crush’_ echoed from the giant speakers on their side of the stage. The band hadn’t bothered to greet the crowd, rather ramping up the excitement by playing arguably their biggest hit, and of course, Dean and Castiel’s song. 

Brought together by the slow beat and Shirley Manon’s rasping drawl, Castiel and Dean needed no encouragement more to wrap their arms around each other, and sway to the music, their foreheads pressed together when their lips weren’t. Gone were the days where Dean would care that his friends and family were around to witness his adoration for Castiel. It was clear through every touch and kiss and joyful beaming smile that Dean wanted to do nothing more. Their life was full of music, Castiel figured, if anything, just so Dean had an excuse to ask for a dance.

The final punchy, electronic beats slowly faded away after some minutes, and the crowd cheered, erupting in shrieking appreciation for the band, however Shirley Manson hung around at the mic, raising her hands to silence the crowd.

“So,” she breathed into the mic in her rasp, Scottish drawl, brushing hot red fringe from her face, “that first song was for you, Dean—”

Castiel froze, staring at the stage, convinced he’d misheard and giving his head a shake to knock the fuzz out of his ears.

“--I hope,” she went on, looking around at the crowd, “that he said ‘yes’.”

The crowd cheered again and Shirley said something else, introducing her next song, but Castiel lost focus, turning towards Dean to ask him if he’d misheard that, too, but…

Dean was smiling, and his arm flexed as he fished in his pocket. With a wink, he held up his hand, showing Castiel a simple silver ring.

“What—” Castiel choked out, his face going numb.

Dean raised his brows and laughed. “Did Cas say ‘yes’?”

Oh...dear God, this was happening. Castiel’s mouth flapped open and closed, and he looked around at his friends, who all grinned--even Naomi, who stood with her arms crossed and one brow raised expectantly. 

“Did I… What…?” 

It was distinctly possible Castiel might pass out, and this year, it wasn’t because of the heat.

Dean waved the ring through the air and chuckled, leaning away a bit, “Dude, you gonna make me get down on one knee? ‘Cause I will. I’ll get down on one knee in this dirt if I have to.”

“What is happening?” Castiel breathed, faintly gesturing to the stage. “How did you… Are you asking me… I’m going to faint.”

Dean stepped towards him, a fond twinkle in his eye. He raised his hands to Castiel’s face, cradling his jaw, and he asked clearly, “I told you a million times that I wanted you all to myself, and I meant it. Be mine forever. Will you marry me, Sunshine?”

Castiel inhaled sharply, his breath hitched and, _God, he was going to cry, wasn’t he?_

“Yes,” Castiel hiccuped, nodding ridiculously, blinking hard. “Yes, yes, yes—”

The million ‘yes’s that were trying to escape his lips were swallowed by another kiss, a deep, lovely, amazing, beautiful kiss that was all the sappy words and more, but he was too busy being held up by a strong arm around his waist so he wouldn’t pass out to come up with anything better.

“Groooooss!” Charlie cried, throwing her head back. “Such sappy gays!”

“Shut up before we all get uninvited to the wedding!” Uriel snapped. “I’ve never been a best man before, and I’ll be damned if you take that away from me, Bradbury.”

Castiel pulled away from the kiss and asked somewhat hysterically, “How did you--What--How the _hell_ did you get Shirley Manson to play a song for you?”

“Eh,” Dean shrugged, but he was grinning from ear-to-ear, his sweaty cheeks red and shining. “She was gonna play it anyway—” He nodded his head towards their friends. “--but Naomi was project manager on the promotional campaign for their recent album, so she helped me out, pulled some strings.”

Castiel’s heart dropped out of his butt and his head snapped to the side, staring at Naomi, who was smiling proudly, swaying on the spot.

“What?” Castiel breathed at her, though she probably couldn’t do more but read his lips over the crowd singing along to _‘Push It’._

“Yeah,” Dean went on, “she told me a few months ago at Hannah and Sam’s engagement party. So I thought I’d milk those connections. Besides, she’d been tellin’ me she wanted to help ever since I told her I was gonna get you to marry my ass.”

Castiel was going to kill Naomi. He was going to kill her, and then give her a hug and never say one damn mean thing about her--even behind her back. 

“Put the ring on him, you idiot!” Sam yelled over the crowd at his brother, his dimples deep and pronounced against his dopey grin. Above him, Hannah was beaming, the sun behind her making her look like a real-life angel.

Dean and Castiel turned their faces to look at each other. Dean held up the ring and raised his brows. “Dude’s got a point.”

With a smirk, Castiel raised his hand and held Dean’s gaze as he slid the ring onto the his finger, looking proud of himself. 

Dean took Castiel’s hand and held it out, surveying it. “Looks damn good.”

“We’ll have to get you one now, too.”

Dean snorted, and shook his head, looking bright and very purely happy. “I ain’t in no rush. I got one on you and that’s what matters.”

“I know there’s no rush,” Castiel replied, stepping away. 

It wasn’t how he’d planned it, but it turned out, this way was much better. 

Reaching into his back pocket, Castiel tugged out a small box he’d been carrying all day. Flipping it open with one hand, he lowered himself onto his knee, gleeful at the chorus of shocked shrieks and roars from their friends that was almost louder than the singing crowd around them.

Dean froze, his eyes widening. 

“I’m old fashioned,” Castiel said loudly over the noise around them, grinning. “I wanted to get down on one knee for you, and I didn’t plan on doing it in the dirt, but it’ll do. So, does Dean say ‘yes’, too?”

“SAY ‘YES’, YOU IDIOT!” Lee bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth as Dean gaped like a fish,

“Yes,” Dean choked out, still looking shocked, although he sunk to his knees, too, reaching out to press his hands to Castiel’s face again. “ _Fuck_. Yes. Of course. Yes, yes, yes--”

Castiel swallowed the million ‘yes’s with a kiss, putting the ring on Dean’s finger blindly before any of their friends could shriek at them to do so or call them idiots, and he lost himself in the moment, thinking only of Dean, his #1 crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming along on this journey with me. This was my first modern AU and I am eternally grateful to all of you who read it as I wrote it, commented on every chapter, encouraged me, recc'ed the fic, and was just generally very supportive of this story. 
> 
> I have a massive thank you to give to Kradarua for beta'ing a majority of this fic. She worked really freakin' hard to make this story readable, because y'all know I like my em dashes and commas and over-explainy sentences that run on and on and on and on... Through her edits and feedback I not only got hilarious comments and encouragement, but learning experiences that I know will help my writing moving forward. Please check out her pages as she is an extraordinary writer that crafts words that suck you right in. I recommend [Oracle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837755/chapters/13453999), a fantasy Destiel tale.
> 
> Also, biggest, most squishy hug to MalMuses and Sobsicles for being not just awesome friends who caps-locked at my endless excerpt sharesies of this story, but who beta'd and alpha'd this bad boy the entire way through, from outline to final chapter. Y'all are the best cheerleaders and exceptional friends. Y'all please check out Mal's AO3 library--I'm gonna shout out[ 'Love Bites' ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481659/chapters/46374901)and her most recent MBB ['Falling Inn Love'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048640/chapters/57868966) for inspiring much of the Cas in this fic. If you like awkward, anxious Cas, those stories will feed your hungry Destiel belly. Sobsicles is the absolute queen bee of writing the most thoughtful, inspiring Destiel fanfic out there. I had the pleasure of betaing her most recent MBB ['Memories Bring Back Memories (Bring Back You)' ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022945/chapters/57796885)and it is AMAZING if you're digging canon, amnesia Destiel fic. Also, her story, ['profoundly bonded (by law)'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396120) will pluck at every heart string and make you shriek with joy by the end. 
> 
> Y'all have been awesome. Please consider subscribing to be notified of new fic. I have quite a few fics in the works right now, hope to see y'all there.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all! You made it to the end of the chapter! Thanks for jumping on this journey with me.
> 
> I am a starving fanfic writer who can only be fed with quality comments of people telling me which part of this chapter was their favourite so...FEED ME. I AM SO HUNGRY.


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